Fate of the Order
by etaeternum
Summary: The final Mother of Griffons story. Responsibility requires the King of Ferelden to aid Warden Commander Nathaniel Howe; the Grey Wardens suffer in the aftermath of Alistair and Caoilainn's ritual. An unhealed history, the burden of regret, and a secret pregnancy threaten the royal couple's stability as the fate of the Order of the Grey hangs by a thread.
1. Prologue

_Two weeks later._

"You're glowing, you know." An older elven woman stirred a broth-filled pot of vegetables and meat while addressing a younger colleague who cleaned a nearby counter. The Denerim Palace kitchen stirred with activity as the staff prepared dinner. "Did you see her yet?"

Pausing mid-motion, the younger woman blushed as she glanced to her elder. "I did," she sighed, touching her slightly rounded belly with a gentle hand. "She said we're both healthy."

Smiling, the elder woman tilted her head in affectionate observation of the young lady's serenity. Before she replied, a loud voice interjected, "What's this you're on about?"

The speaker, an outspoken elder, walked up with a bowl of ingredients to add to the stew. She nudged the younger elf's hip with her own. "That new midwife, innit? In the shite end of the market. You know not to trust shem apostates."

Scowling, the younger elf snapped at the intruder. "Mind your own, Marta. She's been a better healer than those thieves in the alienage."

The eavesdropped conversation had stopped Caoilainn dead in her tracks on her way in from practice. She listened intently for whatever information the kitchen hands might divulge about a midwife outside of the palace. Satisfied with what she overheard, Caoilainn rushed upstairs to change. _I still have time._

Step after step, one foot followed the other higher and higher toward the royal wing of the Denerim Palace. The force of her boots tapping stone floor echoed a quickening heartbeat, ushering panic. Her speeding pulse climbed, throbbing in her ribcage and up to her ears. A similar path she took multiple times a day without challenge now knocked the wind from her. Gasping, she stopped and leaned against the wall of the stairwell. Cool texture of porous rock, rough against her palm soothed her rapid heart rate.

Pregnancy, all she could think about, heightened by reminders that found her every second of every day. Sickness still haunted mornings, waking to a turning stomach that revisited in the afternoon. Even the thought of certain foods made her ill. Her patience with the Denerim soldiers waxed and waned, the result of mood swings. Clothes fit tighter, her armor uncomfortable, worst when she secured her breastplate. It would not be long before her armor needed modification. But for now, she endured the pain, compensating with shorter days on the field and lighter practice.

Delegating tasks to First Lieutenant Adalyn, the young knight's respect for Caoilainn had not diminished since their initial altercation. When Caoilainn assumed the role as Commander of the Royal Army she met the resistance of the influential soldier and established leadership over the army's ranks. Cautious engagement and adaptation of her training methods paid respect to her limitations, and none questioned the change. Today's practice had gone well, but despite her most deliberate actions to protect herself, symptoms occurred.

A sob escaped her as she settled against the wall. Breathing, she cursed herself, and then she cursed Alistair. Self-directed anger for the immeasurable ways she had wronged him joined frustration with his indecision in spite of her promises and the love she felt for the circumstances of ailments outweighed all of it. Images of the child growing within her influenced excitement, and fear, but loneliness rested beneath it all. _I don't want to do this alone. I can't hide this forever._

She hid the sickness well enough from Alistair. Having not been intimate with her in over two weeks, he had not noticed her body's new sensitivities, the minuscule changes in her shape, or the bittersweet joy that filled her. Confused and wandering thoughts milled anxious possibilities of parenthood and doubts of her ability.

Tormented by the desire to tell him, to witness his elation when he understood the prospect of a child, she longed for him. His unique and intense love and warmth could offer reprieve from the unpleasant symptoms. But fear kept her silent. The fragment of a chance he would be unhappy with news of her pregnancy, or the possibility it could usher added confusion about his commitment to their marriage, assured silence a more mature decision until they found resolution on their own. _I need to see that midwife, away from the palace's loose-lipped healers._

Alistair's suspicious questions and interrogating stares worsened. He had pressed her again about falling on the field. She was more careful, avoiding any more reasons for his doubt. It did nothing to dissuade the bitterness laced in his curt tone when he spoke to her or when his piercing eyes followed her with distrust. Recent lines on his face and shadows under his eyes suggested exhaustion, sadness, and distraction. She had witnessed his gaze blur when his mind drifted off, concerned with something he withheld. It was torture, knowing something troubled him. But she respected his silence, assuming it related to his responsibilities as king, and empathizing all too well with the burden of keeping secrets.

Caoilainn's breath steadied, and she continued her trek upstairs, finally reaching her private room. Opening the door, her heartbeat sped again from the slightest fear she would find another letter from Nathaniel resting on her desk. Today, just as each time she entered her office since her argument with Alistair, she sighed relief when she found her desk free of griffon stamped parchment.

Tired steps carried her to the day bed, sinking down on the cushioned bench to take off pieces of armor. With her breastplate removed, Caoilainn cringed. Her bust loosened, aching, heavy, and sensitive to contact. She touched her chest's tender tissue with one hand, gauging the pain, hoping to ease the discomfort with pressure to no avail. The pain persisted, like a bruise spreading around the surface of her breast, and acute soreness of her nipples. Her tongue pushed against the back of her teeth and she hissed, closing her eyes.

The pain ebbed, and she lay down. Taking a few minutes to rest until she acclimated to being outside of her armor, the notion of sleep tempted her. Heavy eyelids resisted opening and her mind fogged, succumbing to fleeting dreams. _But the healer._ The thought called through her daze, reminding Caoilainn of her intent for the afternoon. Begrudgingly, Caoilainn rose from the daybed to change. Donning the most mundane attire she could locate, breeches and a top unmarked by royal insignia. She laced her boots, secured a knife at her hip, and covered her head with hooded cloak before she ventured downstairs. _Chin up, tits out._

Guards and palace staff meandered through the hallway as Caoilainn slipped through; years of practice sneaking through the halls of Castle Cousland now put to good use. The unsuspecting workers gathered dense around the palace door. It sparked a memory, a painful recollection of the time she fled from Alistair to return to the Keep all those years ago. _This isn't the same._ She reminded herself, insisting on the good intentions of this application of stealth unlike before. Though she the right to leave the Palace when she wanted, the chance someone would tell Alistair, fueling more of his suspicion, deterred her from the risk.

"You there," a guard called behind her. She ignored the voice, assuming it summoned to another woman in the hall. "You there, in the cloak." The armored guard walked toward her, quickening his steps.

 _Shit._ She kept walking; her pace speeding in hopes the guard would abandon his goal, but his footsteps followed behind, compensating for her speed and distance. The clinking metal grew louder as he drew near. Only a few strides from the door, the target in sight; the guard spoke from right behind her.

"Miss, make sure you've got all your things," the guard directed, glancing at her shoulder, where she carried no bag. Keeping the hood over her face, Caoilainn stared down as he continued. "The palace will be closed to the public at sundown. Are you forgetting anything here?"

A slow exhale of relief, Caoilainn blinked lowly glancing toward the man with her head still covered. She lowered her voice, attempting to hide any evidence of aristocracy in her accent. "No." The rushed answer gave feeble explanation, and she knew it. She clenched her hand. "My satchel's under my cloak. I've got all my things."

Her glance lifted for the briefest moment, meeting the narrowed eyes of the guard. Before he could process what he saw, she rushed past him and left the palace. Determined not to lose her breath to overexertion again, steady strides carried her through the city. Into the market and along an alley, Caoilainn searched for the midwife she had heard the elves refer.

Not wanting to gain attention in the market, Caoilainn kept her head down. It shrouded her vision, making it difficult to identify stores and residences along the market district. Persistent steps carried her onward, glancing at shops along the outer edges of the market until she reached a dark side street. Back alleys in Denerim rarely occupied by reputable tenants obligated vigilance. Certain bandits would realize the value of the life of the Queen was worth a larger ransom than the coin she carried gave confidence, and that was only necessary if she could not kill them first.

In a dark corner of the alley, a dirty storefront caught her attention. Strands of purple light shone from the dusty window, and a makeshift sign hung above the door, a large tree in the form of a pregnant woman etched in the wood. Stepping to the door, Caoilainn gave a gentle knock before pushing it open. A chime jingled and Caoilainn looked up to catch the source before she walked in. Her hood fell to her shoulders. She scanned the deserted room; cobwebs filled the corners, bottles lined the windowsill. A bookshelf filled with herbs and potions stood behind a counter.

Nerves filled Caoilainn, growing discouraged about the safety of her plan. Before she could change her mind, a woman stepped from a backroom. She wore a kind face, light robes hung from her generous frame. Without a word, she smiled and took Caoilainn's hand, tilting her head toward the hall from which she came.

The healer pulled Caoilainn's arm, and the Queen followed. Her brow creased, confused about the strange circumstances of the midwife's procedure. Caoilainn withheld words, shocked, eyes searching for any evidence of the security of the facility. The distinct beating of her heart made its way back to her ears.

Rounding a corner, the healer woman walked away. A familiar voice sounded, giving Caoilainn goosebumps. "Congratulations." A young boy giggled from the same room.

Caoilainn gasped, her eyes widening as she discerned the speaker. A figure knelt in front a young lad, residual energy of healing magic surrounded them. Black hair in a messy bun marked the back of the woman's head. "Morrigan," Caoilainn mumbled, pressing her hand to her chest. The dusty room came into focus around the witch; two chairs sat at one wall and a table at the other.

Smirking, Morrigan stood and turned around. "You found me."

"She found us, mother. Didn't she?" The smiling Kieran interjected, adding his insight to the reunion.

A tired laugh escaped Caoilainn, the sting of happy tears reaching her eyes. "I didn't realize I was looking for you." The welcome sight of her friend contrasted recent episodes isolation and sadness. Fleeting questions of the witch of the wild's unexpected appearance subsided to gratitude. "You can't imagine how relieved I am to see you."

"Oh, but I can." With an affection smile, Morrigan addressed Kieran. "Little man, I need you to go play with Willow while Caoilainn and I talk." She patted him on the head. The young man gave a pleading look, begging Morrigan to let him stay, but Morrigan only shook her head. Finally, he shirked his shoulders and groaned, shuffling his feet on the way from the room.

Watching Kieran's melodramatic exit, Caoilainn stared in disbelief. "Has he truly grown so much since I last saw him? It hasn't been that long." The sound of the young boy playing down the hall echoed her inquiry.

"It's been long enough." Morrigan dipped her head in confirmation. The witch walked to her friend and put her palm to Caoilainn's forehead, as if checking for a fever. Eyes large, Caoilainn did not protest Morrigan's warmhearted gesture, though it was uncharacteristic for the notoriously prickly mage. Morrigan's hand moved, the back of her digits pressing gently against Caoilainn's cheek. "You're with child."

Tears made their way to the surface and Caoilainn blinked, nodding her head with appreciation. The special moment between friends interrupted by Caoilainn's meek whisper, "I haven't told him."

Morrigan took an herb from the table, a green leaf Caoilainn could not identify and handed it to the Queen. She waved her hand toward Caoilainn's mouth, a signal for Caoilainn to chew the plant while Morrigan massaged her belly. "'Tis a shame. You cannot afford secrecy under such circumstances."

The green, earthy flavor of the plant made Caoilainn's mouth water and her tongue tingle. She realized it was mint. Caoilainn's brow furrowed; uncomfortable by the pressure of Morrigan's fingers and her condescending words, she swallowed excess saliva and pushed the leaf against her cheek. Needing to explain, to help Morrigan understand, she responded with discretion, "He needs to decide if he wants to be with me without influence from… this." She gestured her midsection.

The sorceress took the wrist of the hand Caoilainn used to motion. Her fingers tightened, pressing against the venous section. Condescending words continued as she checked Caoilainn's pulse. "Then you're more a fool than the idiot himself. I am baffled his dedication has not fallen to your doubt."

Caoilainn snorted in exasperation, "Did you come here just to scold me? Your assumptions are unwelcome and inaccurate." Determining Morrigan done with her wrist, Caoilainn pulled her hand to her chest. "Alistair and I are…" The struggle to find words to explain the status of her relationship with Alistair failed. She settled for the minimum. "We've barely spoken in weeks."

Morrigan gave the faintest hint of a sympathetic smile, making Caoilainn grit her teeth to prepare for the attempt at encouragement. "You and he have gone longer without words, have you not?" Leaving distance between them, Morrigan lifted a brow, opening her palms in question. "And he's not left you, nor told you to leave?"

Sighing, Caoilainn looked to the ground. "It's not so simple. I'm not ready to tell him, Morrigan. It's not the right time." Without giving Morrigan a chance to denounce her logic, Caoilainn changed the subject, gazing around the dingy room. "But for the love of the Maker, what are you doing here?"

"Intuition," Morrigan glanced at Caoilainn's belly with amusement. The smirk vanished as she continued, "Philippa wrote to me, requesting help due to repercussions of the ritual. Thus, I determined an opportunity to see you, which was fortunate considering accurate premonitions. I've only been here a few days."

The answer sparked more questions. The Queen's face twisted with worry and she vocalized her concern, "How long will you stay?" A pit fell in Caoilainn's stomach, imagining returning to the lonely palace, bearing through pregnancy symptoms alone.

"That will depend on what occurs in the meeting," Morrigan stood from her seat. The sound of Kieran's idle chatter, playing in the back room had stopped. "What is that boy up to?"

 _Meeting?_ An understanding that something occurred beyond Caoilainn's comprehension clicked. Morrigan knew more than she did. The twitch of Caoilainn's brow preceded her question. "What meeting?"

For a moment, Morrigan's eyes widened, but she regained her composure. She walked out the door of the small room into the hallway. Wishing to avoid stress upon her friend, Morrigan advised, "'Tis a conversation for you to have with your partner, as he organized the event."

Reaching her hand and resting it on Morrigan's shoulder, Caoilainn shook her head. Unwilling to be brushed off, the Queen felt her face heating with frustration. "Tell me, Morrigan. What do you know?"

Morrigan turned on her heels and put her hands on Caoilainn's shoulders. The witch sighed and advised Caoilainn to stay calm. "Take a breath." Caoilainn did as directed, her forehead creasing with suspicion. "Weisshaupt is deserted, Caoilainn. There has been aftermath from your cure." The corner of Morrigan's mouth lifted. "But, it seems you should expect a boy."


	2. Territory

Fresh from her bath, the scent of his wife always permeated the dining hall; a sensory experience he missed in her absence from the dinner table. Her chair remained vacant, along with her reserved and meager attempts at conversation.

The reliable heat exuded when she stretched alongside him in bed compensated for emotional distance. Knowing touch would betray his need for introspective silence; he stubbornly avoided intimacy for the sake of quiet contemplation. The void beside him lacked her warmth when he fell asleep, and only wrought questions of her whereabouts.

Alistair had secrets too. All kept from her attention: Nathaniel's letter, summoning Garrett Hawke, and planning a meeting with the Champion, the Warden Commander, and the Warden mage to occur the next day.

He had rushed to organize the meeting; the guests invited due to proximity and time to occur before Garrett Hawke left Denerim. His plans to invite Fiona and Morrigan had temporarily fallen to the wayside, their locations unknown. Fereldan relations with the Inquisition made writing to Skyhold problematic.

Dreading the circumstances, feigning diplomacy with Nathaniel Howe made Alistair's skin crawl. Taunted by the shame around his own hypocrisy, and though not proud of his actions, he clung to the right to omit the truth from Caoilainn.

He had planned to invite her to the meeting at dinner, but the empty spaces at the dinner table and in their bed occupied his thoughts.

Nathaniel would arrive in town the next day. Vague notions of clandestine communication, he concocted visions of Caoilainn planning a liaison with Howe the night before the meeting. Groaning, he shook his head. _Am I ridiculous enough to believe that?_

Besides her tendency to withdraw, putting up her notorious wall to avoid vulnerability, she had proven her loyalty since they returned. Ashamed of his behavior, his doubt and anger seeping through and corrupting any steps toward resolution, he couldn't blame her for the distance, and not telling him about whatever ailed her. Her company in spite of his obstinacy showed her faith in him. _Whatever she's been hiding isn't about Howe._

She had arrived in the night, long after he fell asleep. Sounds of her rising from bed and readying for the day rang painfully through his ears the next morning. Alistair awoke with a headache. A sensation he recognized from the countless mornings he had woken up sick and aching after drinking himself into oblivion the night prior, grieving Caoilainn's betrayal when she returned to Vigil's Keep. After enough nights in self-pity and mornings in pain, he had given up alcohol. His life had been better for it, recovering his sense of self and his determination to live. Her return to Denerim, something he had once pursued with vigilance, now shattered his self-awareness.

Hung over from resentment, shame for his inflexibility and lies made worse by the bitter taste her secrecy left in his mouth. The headache throbbed behind his eyes, crawling inward from each temple to his eye sockets. Stabbing pain blurred his vision, making him dizzy, as waves of nausea twisted his stomach. The desire for food battled his body's warnings not to eat. But if this hangover was anything like the others, food would help.

He ventured to the kitchen, expecting to have missed her; her change in eating habits was as flighty and unpredictable as her recent mood swings. Hearing of multiple incidents of her snapping at his army, he suspected she missed the loyalty of her Wardens or even Nathaniel Howe. Not wanting the potential answer to his questions, he avoided confronting her on the subject.

"Good morning." A timid voice spoke from the dining hall. Caoilainn sat at the table, a plate of bacon and a mug of hot tea in front of her. "Are you hungry?"

A curious twitch and his eyes glanced from the bacon-filled plate to Caoilainn. He shook his head. "Not as much as you, apparently." He walked to the kitchen, closing one eye to lessen the pain from light shining through the palace windows affecting his headache.

He called for a bowl of porridge, drank a large glass of water, and returned to the table while he waited for his food. Caoilainn wolfed down strips of cured meat faster than he had seen her eat in weeks. _Slow down, Caoilainn._ He thought he had noticed a small change in her figure over the last month and attributed it to excess bacon.

"Where were you last night?" The inquiry fell from his mouth before he could refrain. Her appearance at the table presented too easy an opportunity.

Caoilainn's chewing ceased; she took a deep breath and swallowed. "I… needed fresh air. I went for a walk around the market."

His eyes squinted, from his headache and skepticism of her reply.

Both did not speak as an attendant brought Alistair's food out and placed it in front of him. He pressed the ridge of his hand to his forehead, his thumb massaging his temple until the attendant left. "You didn't think to tell anyone? None of the guards knew where you were. It's not safe."

Her timidity vanished. Caoilainn wore a smug frown as she cleaned her hands on a cloth. "I met with Morrig-."

He looked up from under his palm. "You snuck out. What are you hiding?"

"What am _I_ hiding?" She tossed the napkin onto the table. Holding her reserved demeanor, Caoilainn's voice stayed low. "Morrigan's here for whatever assembly you've organized without my knowledge. Did you plan to tell me about Weisshaupt?"

Alistair's lips bunched, displeased with her calling him out. "That doesn't concern you, and don't change the subject, Caoilainn." While he planned to tell her, he resisted obligation of anything, in particular since she used it as a method to control the conversation.

She scoffed, "Really, Alistair? It doesn't concern me?" Grinding her teeth, Caoilainn refrained from disputing her right as the former Warden Commander to be included in any matters concerning the Wardens. She maintained her anger and rose from her seat; flat palms pushed the air down in front of her, ridding herself of the subject. "Fine. You attend to your business and I'll attend to mine. Enjoy your meeting."

 _Damn it._ He pushed his chair from the table and stood. "That's not what I meant-" But before he could explain, she had walked from the dining hall. His opportunity to ask her to join the discussion about Weisshaupt and the Wardens dissolved.

"You're an idiot." The familiar patronizing lilt came from outside the room. Poignant footsteps echoed the remark. Alistair turned to see Morrigan walking into the dining hall.

Whether the result of Alistair's migraine or the witch's consistent ability to revolt him- her sight a reminder of the night they slept together, his stomach turned.

"I got that, thanks." Sighing, he sat back down; his elbow propped on the table supported his aching head. Distracted by the discomfort and the failed conversation with Caoilainn, he didn't think to ask of Kieran. "Hearing someone else say it is just what I needed."

Graceful steps carried Morrigan to the table; she stood adjacent from Alistair and stole a piece of bacon from Caoilainn's plate. Alistair stirred his porridge absent-mindedly. "She's trying, you know." Morrigan took a bite.

"Is that what she told you? You don't understand-" His eyes shot to the witch, but as they landed on the woman's condescending gaze, he realized the source of the information. "Wait, how did you get in here? _Why_ are you even here?"

Morrigan shrugged, wiping her hand on the cloth napkin. "Philippa wrote to me of the Wardens and requested I attend your meeting. Your door was open." With a curious glance to Alistair, she stated an observation. "It seems your guards know more of the function you ordered than your wife."

"Maker, I'm an idiot." Alistair released his spoon and pushed both palms into his forehead.

"There is freedom in admittance." With a disinterested sigh, the witch flourished her hand in inquiry. "Do you wish her at the meeting?"

Grimacing, Alistair nodded. Caoilainn's attendance would add an experienced voice to the table, and her presence at his side would offer support. Shuddering at the thought of sitting across the table from Nathaniel Howe, he needed her encouragement.

"Finish your breakfast. It will help your headache," Morrigan ordered. "I'll talk to her." The witch turned on her heels and went to find Caoilainn, leaving Alistair to eat his meal alone.

* * *

4 days prior

 _"D'you really need all these sodding books?" Arms full of thick compendiums on magic, Hale escorted the sorceress Philippa from the library of Vigil's Keep._

 _"They're tomes, child, and yes." Philippa waved her hand to hurry the elf. "I've consolidated down to the most necessary texts. Send Nathaniel to fetch a cart from the stable."_

 _"Warden Commander," a man's gruff voice corrected from the hallway, "and no," Nathaniel concluded. "We won't be there long enough for you to need all those."_

 _At least he hoped their visit to Denerim would be brief. Not looking forward to spending hours in a meeting room with both the King of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall, Nathaniel planned not to linger once the group determined a solution to the Wardens' ailments. Wary of the risk the mutual dislike between himself and the King to sabotage the success of the summit; Hawke would only instigate tempers._

 _Philippa's eyes narrowed and her hands found her hips; Hale stopped dead in her tracks between them. "You asked me to join you, yet you limit me of my most viable resource. Surely you don't believe yourself and the King will simply put your heads together and devise a remedy to this whole fiasco." She patted Hale's rear, ushering her to keep walking._

 _"Oy! Hands off," Hale looked over her shoulder, glaring at the sorceress, "I ain't cattle or some bar wench." She looked to Nate. "What am I doing with all these books?_

 _Not missing a breath, Nathaniel and Philippa answered in unison._

 _"Leave them."_

 _"Take them."_

 _The sorceress made a derisive laugh, her head tilting to the side. She stared at him with amused exasperation. "Come now, Nathaniel. Do you intend to save the Wardens, or has his majesty merely called us to Denerim for noble festivities?"_

 _"Warden Commander," he corrected, shaking his head, he lifted his hands to surrender, "take what you can fit in a saddlebag."_

 _"Four bags," the sorceress bargained and Nathaniel rolled his eyes._

 _"One, and whatever you can fit in your pack. We still need supplies for camp. If any of our party will sacrifice room in their bags for your tomes that is between you and them." The offer was final, Nathaniel walked out of the building to the tied and waiting horses out front before she could retort._

 _He intended the late departure. The King had scheduled the meeting for late afternoon in four days. Leaving later assured less chance of awkward interaction. The unexpected reply from King Alistair had arrived in his office a few days after Nathaniel sent his initial correspondence to his majesty. The summons, not personalized, did not address Nathaniel's apology and instead called for the presence of Nathaniel Howe, Garret Hawke, and Philippa to the Denerim Palace to determine the cause and solution of the Grey Wardens recent suffering. The draining ailments continued to spread through the army, soldiers kept to their beds, leached of their life force by an undefined cause._

 _"Thank you again for joining us, Fiona. Do you need any help?" Nathaniel bowed his head to the nervous elven woman who stood near her horse. Shifting on her feet as she waited, she wrung her hands._

 _Fiona's serendipitous arrival occurred a week prior. In Nathaniel's conversation with Hawke, the mage mentioned her name and advised he seeks her guidance, the reason unclear in their heavy conversation about his findings at Weisshaupt. But before he sent a letter, she had shown up at the Keep, forcing Nathaniel to assume Philippa had already invited her. The two women had spent nights toiling over texts in the Warden library since she appeared. In his duties as Warden Commander, Nathaniel had not entertained a longer conversation with their guest._

 _"I'm fine." Fiona nodded to him and Nathaniel took a step toward his own horse to load the last of his items. "Wait," she added._

 _Brows furrowing, the Warden Commander turned. Fiona glanced to the ground, her lips bunching before her eyes met his. "Did the invitation from the King include my name?"_

 _"Invitation is not the word I would use to describe what I received." Nathaniel snorted and made a tired smirk. "That would suggest the option to decline. But no, your name was not listed. Philippa insisted your attendance is crucial. Have you changed your mind?"_

 _"No," her voice rose, and she stood straighter, but the temporary lapse in her timidity ended and her wringing hands resumed. "I've been banished from the Kingdom. I shouldn't even be here, let alone Denerim."_

 _"Oh." The confession caught Nathaniel off guard. Fiona stood in silence, waiting for him to give a more comprehensive reply. "Under any other circumstances, I doubt the King would welcome me to his court. He understands our desperation. Are you willing to find out what he says?"_

 _He had heard of the mishap in Redcliffe and its connections to the Grand Enchanter, but did not pursue details in respect for her privacy, trusting she would do the same. The royal couple's confidence in the mage to help with their cure surpassed whatever secrets she carried. Diffidence suggested regret, and he empathized._

 _The mage took a deep breath and closed her eyes, wringing hands ceased; she nodded. "Just let me know how else I can help."_

 _"Talk to Philippa," he dipped his head toward the mage, joined by Hale, both attempting to cram tomes into her saddlebag._

 _The mage nodded in agreement and made her way to her colleague._

 _"Hale," Nate called to the lanky redheaded elf. She ignored him. Forehead creased, lip-bitten, Hale tried to shove a book into Philippa's overfull storage. "Huntress," he called for her again._

 _"Bollocks, Nate! What?!" Her eyes shot up from her task and she glared at him._

 _Lips pressed, Nate refrained from snapping back at her exclamation; he raised an eyebrow._

 _Hale looked upward, and she huffed. Another deep breath calmed her down. "Sorry, yeah. Commander." She released her hands from the leather and Philippa took over. The Huntress walked to Nathaniel._

 _"Hale, I'm still Commander. I can't treat you differently than I would any other Warden." A struggle for balance, the two were learning: having an intimate relationship, challenged by her role as his soldier._

 _The young woman had only returned a few weeks prior. Love professed, something each failed to admit in their previous months together. Hale accepted his apology for mistakenly ending their relationship and he acknowledged her apprehension- fear of disapproval from fellow Wardens._

 _"'Cept we plough." The Huntress stated a difference between herself and other Grey Wardens in Nate's charge._

 _"That is true," he confirmed, smirking at the lovely creature in front of him, "and I love you."_

 _She blushed and rolled her eyes. "I love you." Sad notes seeped through the sentiment._

 _Neither knowledgeable of the customs of couples in temporary goodbyes, he gave assurance. "We should be back in a week."_

 _Glancing around the entryway to the Keep for potential onlookers, Nate observed only the mages, still struggling to secure Philippa's books to the horses. His gaze returned to Hale, and his hand slid along her jaw line; extended digits framed her ear, brushing through her hair. The Huntress closed her eyes; the sight of the woman contented by his touch did not cease to amaze. He offered gentle direction and bowed his head to kiss her._

Bittersweet, Nathaniel replayed the memory as encouragement to settle the growing pit in his stomach. He waited at the end of a long table in the Denerim Palace, having arrived at the palace shortly before the scheduled meeting. They all entered with no challenges from guards. Philippa and Fiona sat on one side; Philippa's tomes spread out in front of them. The mages occupied their time discussing the information they would present from the texts.

The door opened at the other end of the room; the mages discussion stopped. Holding his breath, Nate waited to identify the next attendant to the meeting. He exhaled, shifting in his seat. The grinning Garrett Hawke made large strides to a chair opposite the sorceresses and winked to the women. The door creaking back open stopped Nathaniel's attempts to hide his annoyance. Alistair entered the room.

The tan and muscular King walked with confidence. His crown and royal attire conveyed his higher nobility. Avoiding eye contact with anyone until he took his seat at the other end of the table, his eyes registered first with Nathaniel. In response to the King's sober gaze and imperceptible frown, Nathaniel cleared his throat and looked away to a bare wall.

A naked arm pushing the door open caught his attention. It belonged to a woman with a revealing top escorting Caoilainn into the meeting room. He recognized the witch from Skyhold: Morrigan, a friend of Caoilainn's and assistant to the Inquisitor.

With the final attendees at the table, King Alistair forced a smile. "Shall we begin?"


	3. The Meeting

"Don't let the fool incite your anger." Morrigan's voice rose over the sound of Caoilainn beating a wooden sword against a pell. The Queen hit the worn post again, growling as the mock blade impacted.

"Not… tell… me…. about...Weisshaupt." She muttered between swings; her energy exerted with each hit. "Not... even... tell me... about... the meeting." Sweat dripped from Caoilainn's forehead, her hair stuck to her neck. Stopping to catch her breath, she faced Morrigan. "I rebuilt the Fereldan order!"

"You cling _so_ tightly to a role that is no longer yours." Morrigan crossed her arms.

Caoilainn's face grew hot, embarrassed by the circumstances created by her foolish choices, trusting Alistair and abandoning the Wardens; the conflict awakened yearning for the unconditional love from her army.

"He waited until I left them to decide he couldn't forgive me. They were like my children, Morrigan. He knew." The arm holding the wooden sword hung limp at Caoilainn's side.

Shaking her head as she stepped nearer, Morrigan's words did not indulge in Caoilainn's reactivity. "You're as infantile as your husband. Should you continue to allow the symptoms of his pain afflict your well-being, you put your legitimate offspring at risk." The witch nodded, her eyes glancing toward Caoilainn's waist.

"Morrigan!" Caoilainn's aggravation resurfaced, she hushed Morrigan and her eyes darted toward the doorway, making sure unwelcome ears overheard the comment. "Please," she hissed, "don't say such things."

"Don't act like a child and I will have no reason to." Morrigan glared and Caoilainn stared back, mouth gaping, her chest puffed in defense. The reaction satisfied the witch, and her expression softened. "The necessity of your presence at the meeting is recognized… by all."

"Really?" Face bunching in confusion, the defensive lift of Caoilainn's chest fell. Simultaneously shocked, gratified, and irritated Alistair would include her; she managed a simple question for clarity. "He asked for me?"

"Does it matter?" The subtle roll of Morrigan's eyes suggested her growing annoyance, dislike in Caoilainn seeking unnecessary details. Caoilainn narrowed her gaze and only nodded her head. Morrigan sighed, "Not in so many words, but yes."

"Then he can ask me himself." The words fell from Caoilainn's mouth before she could filter them. She knew Morrigan would not hesitate to label the juvenile response.

"Would you rather not attend?" Morrigan shirked one shoulder, tilting her head to the side.

"Fine," Caoilainn sighed, agreeing to join after she trained.

Bathing after the army's practice and honing more focus today than she had in weeks, Caoilainn ventured downstairs for the summit. Dreading the idea of being in the same room as Alistair and Nathaniel without the security of her position as Warden Commander, she prepared for the impending disaster. Each step closer, her chest grew heavy with anxiety, tightness causing shallow breaths.

Then she saw Alistair standing near the doorway, presumably waiting for her arrival. It forced her to stop. Steeling herself and steadying her breathing, she remembered Morrigan's words about stress upon the child. Caoilainn's hand involuntarily pressed to her belly.

 _Damn it, s_ he cursed herself, extending her hand to her side before Alistair noticed.

"'Tis not something you can hide forever." Morrigan walked from a neighboring room to Caoilainn's side.

"I know," Caoilainn snapped, brushing down the fabric of her gambeson. She glanced to Alistair, displaying the notorious signs of his own nerves. The King paced the hallway, crossing and uncrossing his arms.

"Thank you," Alistair muttered to no one in particular as Caoilainn and Morrigan joined him at the door to the assembly.

Unable to resist the passive aggressive opportunity, Caoilainn avoided Alistair's eyes, instead looking at the door to the assembly. Alistair made no statements or sounds to show he noticed. Rather, he entered the meeting room first.

Having not seen Nathaniel or Philippa since she stepped down as Commander of the Grey, Caoilainn prepared herself for the emotions it might bring up. She followed with Morrigan beside, crossing the threshold into the occupied room. Her gaze set forward, determined to prevent Alistair from interpreting evidence of deceit if she looked at Nate.

Philippa's critical stare interrupted Caoilainn's determination. She noticed the sorceress scanning her frame and glancing to Morrigan with raised eyebrows. Morrigan's subtle nod made Caoilainn blush. _Is it that obvious?_

The Queen took her seat to the right of the King. The mage, Fiona, sat across from her. Feeling eyes upon her, Caoilainn glanced at the woman, but Fiona looked away before their eyes met.

Despite the unexpected guests, the meeting larger than originally planned, Alistair stared down the table at Nathaniel Howe. Bitter anger and vindictive thoughts raced through his mind, validating all the reasons he had to hate the man. Alistair did not gaze at Caoilainn. The fear he would find her watching Howe only surpassed by fear Alistair would find her looking through his intimidating facade to see his insecurity. Sweat dampened the base of Alistair's neck; his collar seemed tighter than usual, strangling him as he tried to hide his nerves and start the meeting.

"Shall we begin?" The King posed the question to the entire group.

A few of the mages gave timid nods, and Nathaniel kept his gaze at the wall. Peeling his eyes away from his opponent, Alistair faced Fiona, seated to his left. He made a tight-lipped smile. "Your arrival was unexpected, but I'm glad you could join us. I hope the guards weren't too horrible when you got here."

The mage shook her head. "Not at all, your Majesty. Apparently, I had already been approved to enter the palace."

Alistair nodded. Recalling Fiona's refusal for anything resembling amnesty for her crimes in Redcliff, he did not offer further explanation. He had added her name to the list of intended attendees before realizing the challenges with reaching the woman.

"And yourself, Hawke." Alistair tipped his head toward the man. "It's been quite a while since I last saw you."

"It has, and I am thrilled to be here." The mage answered with sardonic excitement. "This is just how I love to spend my evenings, discussing sick and missing Grey Wardens in royal assemblies."

"Then you're in the right place, it seems." With a weak chuckle, Alistair returned his attention to the rest of the room. "Now that we're all here, where do we begin?"

The attendees remained quiet, none offering an immediate response to the King's question. An uneasy weight hung over the table. The group waited for someone to speak, passing uncomfortable glances around the room.

"Ooh, this is fun." A jovial voice broke the silence. Hawke propped his elbows on the table and leaned in. He sat on Morrigan's other side. "We're playing a game, aren't we? Who can make this meeting more awkward, right? Goodness, I hope I'm winning."

Morrigan snorted and mirrored his thoughts. "I suspect it's a test of our skill at accomplishing nothing."

Ignoring them both, Alistair clarified, "We're here to discuss whatever ails the Wardens, aren't we? Perhaps you should brief us on the status of your soldiers, Nathaniel?" He casually stated the Commander's first name, but referring to the Wardens as Howe's would make a deeper jab at Caoilainn. Nathaniel had avoided looking at anyone for the entire meeting, but his gaze flinched to Caoilainn at the remark.

The King's knee bounced under the table; the repetitive movement joined a spark of anger. _Don't even dare, lying snake._ Hand flexing, spreading wide and coming to the flat surface, Alistair caught himself before slamming his palm against the wood and instead let it land softly. The concern the attendees had noticed was quickly relieved. Caoilainn put her hand over his; her fingers curled around the edge of Alistair's palm. He allowed it, moving with her lead so the two held hands on the tabletop. Her digits gave a gentle squeeze, and Alistair glanced to his side. Caoilainn stared back with wide and loving eyes.

Nathaniel cleared his throat and explained, glancing around the room as he talked. "Of course, your majesty. Our numbers have depleted. Nightmares haunt Wardens by no identifiable pattern. We've sedated those who are suffering, using magic to prevent the affliction. We've yet to see what happens to a Warden who is left to endure the illness."

"Apparently they vanish," Alistair made a cynical conclusion, associating Nathaniel's report to the status of Weisshaupt. "What evidence do you have this is connected with Caoilainn and I's cure?" The secure room promised only visitor's privy to the information were present.

"Timing," Nathaniel responded quickly. "When you left the bond, we felt the impact."

"I don't take you for a fool, your majesty." Philippa interjected, and Morrigan scoffed at the woman's comment. "You were a Warden long enough to know the depth of the bond."

 _Was I?_ Alistair pondered in spite, the thought teasing at the back of his mind. He took his hand from Caoilainn's and laced his fingers, resting on the table. "I would assume this would impact those who had been in the order longest." His head nodded toward Nathaniel as Alistair looked at Philippa. "And as we can see, that is not the case."

Nathaniel muffled an embittered chuckle with his hand, but did not respond to the remark.

"It's got to be Fade demons," Hawke added, stroking his beard. "If it's nightmares, there must be a demon or demons catching Wardens in their sleep."

"Not necessarily." Keeping her back against her chair instead of leaning into the conversation, Caoilainn mumbled. Her voice grew louder as she realized the group was listening. "I had nightmares. Before the cure. Blackness… it was maddening."

"Yes, dear, but that was due to red lyrium." Philippa shook her head.

"Fade demons are not out of the question," Fiona spoke up, her eyes lingering on Caoilainn before glancing around the room. "But that would indicate a significant problem, many demons or an extremely powerful one randomly targeting Wardens."

"We need to go to the source," Morrigan declared, the irritation in her voice apparent.

"What do you mean?" Wrinkling his brow, Alistair turned his head side to side, unsure what Morrigan's declaration referenced.

The witch rolled her eyes and scoffed. "'Tis obvious. Something is culling your Wardens, and their home base is empty. That is the nest of your precious bond, is it not?" She twirled her hand toward Nathaniel.

"In case you forgot, I recently returned from Weisshaupt." Waving his hand to interrupt Morrigan's communication with Nathaniel, Hawke added, "A lovely holiday, really. A month of travel, a deserted fortress, all the way back home to Ferelden."

Nathaniel shook his head. "Apparently, there was nothing there but a letter from the First Warden. It had been abandoned by its unnamed recipient. They felt what I can only assume was their majesties' separation, and then the nightmares. They left the base to look for someone or something."

"Who or what?" Alistair questioned.

"It was unclear." The Warden Commander shirked his shoulders.

"That must be what the Orlesian Wardens were after when they left Weisshaupt. At least what was left of them." The Champion added a surprised observation.

"What will traveling to Weisshaupt achieve, Morrigan? Shouldn't we follow the path of the Orlesians?" Sighing, Alistair made more inquiries to the witch, expecting her curtness as response.

But before Morrigan could speak, Caoilainn's low voice resonated, "To find the source." The room grew silent. "Weisshaupt is our… the Wardens' homestead. The bond starts there."

Nodding, Fiona mirrored Caoilainn's observation. "The bond is strongest at its base, so the break in the bond must originate and be cured from the source. Someone will need to go who knows what to look for."

"I'll go," Nathaniel blurted, spreading his hands flat on the table.

"My dear Warden Commander," Philippa gave her leader an endearing smile and tutted him. "You certainly don't suspect you know how to locate and mend the bond without our help, do you?"

The revelation sparked a hurried conversation. Philippa and Fiona explained what they discovered in text. Volumes of information failed to clarify the problem that occurred, but hinted at possibilities based on studies of the bond, expounding the notion of the connection living in Weisshaupt. The undeniable risk of Fade demons complicated measures. Entering the Fade with the Wardens impacted in Ferelden had been unsuccessful in identifying the cause. The sorceresses concluded physical distance from the homestead as the reason.

The meeting stretched on, details of the need to visit Weisshaupt clarified in more detail. Members of the assembly contributed to the plans, deciding to leave from Denerim and return to Vigil's Keep within a few days before beginning the trek to the Anderfels. The mages and Nathaniel determined a route; Alistair and Caoilainn stayed silent as the plans finalized.

With a contemplative frown, Fiona added, glancing toward Philippa, "We need to find out what the other Grey Wardens were looking for."

Garrett Hawke mocked the intense conversation with a sarcastic grin. Winking, he pointed his thumb to the head of the table and spoke through the side of his mouth. "We should bring those who've been cured, don't you agree? Since this whole thing is their fault and all."

None responded. Alistair and Caoilainn shifted in their seats, glancing at one another. Fiona stared in her lap.

"It's all our faults," Philippa met the eyes of the other sorceresses. "But bringing their majesties is pertinent."

Caoilainn flinched as if startled. The movement joined Morrigan shaking her head with a side-eyed glance at the Queen. Alistair assumed Morrigan elbowed Caoilainn. _That's unusual._

Though Alistair loathed the thought of traveling with Nathaniel and his company, the idea of Caoilainn going without him was not a question. He nodded to the entire table. "We'll both go."

"I can't…" Caoilainn quickly retorted. A moment later she added, "I can't leave… the Royal Army."

Cocking a brow, Alistair stared at Caoilainn, genuinely confused by her resistance. "You know Lord Baldric will take care of them, and Knight Adalyn can lead them herself." His advisor had acted as the leader of the army before Caoilainn took position as commander.

Eyes darting around the room before focusing on Alistair, Caoilainn lowered her voice and leaned in, keeping their conversation as private as possible. "I'm sure the kingdom would think poorly of both their King and Queen leaving for the Anderfels when we only returned from Skyhold earlier this year."

 _What is going on?_ He squinted and shook his head. "Teagan will watch over everything while we're gone." Alistair whispered, "I will not suffer through a trip like this with _Nathaniel Howe_ without you. We were both cured; we should both go."

"Well, I can't," she hissed, leaning back in her chair.

Caoilainn's statement was final, intending to end the discussion. He met a wall, another secret. Certain her resistance related to Nathaniel, frustration revived his anger. _She doesn't have the courage to travel with both of us. More lies, Caoilainn?_ Already annoyed with the circumstances of this new obligation, made worse by her refusal to join them, he pushed for more information, ignoring the other meeting attendees who watched the uncomfortable dialogue at one end of the table. "Give me a reason. Why not?"

Misty eyed, her cheeks reddened. She glared at him, her lips tugging down as she tried not to cry. "Please, can we talk about this later?"

"Yes, Alistair," Morrigan offered advice, "listen to your wife and save us all from enduring your aimless bickering."

"Stay out of it, Morrigan." The depth of Caoilainn's secret the longer she kept it made his heart ache. Tired of her lies and misdirection, the tactful avoidance of all his inquiries, Alistair would no longer settle for secrecy. His face burned, but he regained his whisper. "I need you to come with me-"

"I can't, Alistair." Composure lost, she squeezed her eyes shut. Tears pooling on her lashes, Caoilainn announced, "I'm pregnant."


	4. Paternity

_"I'm pregnant."_

Two words echoed off the walls, resonating through the silence to the recipient of the news. Caoilainn opened her eyes to see Alistair staring back slack-jawed.

"Huh?" Baffled, he could only mutter the incoherent question.

Breathing in silence, lacking the courage to restate her admission, Caoilainn only nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted an amused grin spreading on Morrigan's face. The rest of the table gawked at the royal couple.

Red cheeks contrasted Caoilainn's wide blue eyes staring at Alistair, deciphering his disbelief. She reached for his hand, but he squeezed his palm shut and inched it away. More betrayal, the impact of another lie caused harm.

"Well, this is an unexpected turn." Garrett Hawke quipped from his corner, resting his elbows on the table. He grinned, propping his chin over his hands "So who's the father?"

Eyebrows lifting, Nate glanced at the ceiling. His blank stare lingered; expression neutral, the Warden Commander inhaled and stood. "It seems this meeting is finished. I will be… elsewhere until otherwise needed."

The glare of the sorceresses at Hawke did not falter as Nate left the room. Their heads shook at the unabashed champion who squinted as he watched Nate leave. Returning his attention to the women, Hawke shrugged. "What? By the look on his majesty's face it's a reasonable question."

"Imbecile," Philippa scolded Hawke. "The surprise results from being cured of the taint.

"I propose we recess this meeting. There's nothing else to discuss aside from who our travel party will include." The former Grand Enchanter rose, addressing the other mages. The women nodded and Hawke gave a deflated sigh, displeased with his new source of entertainment ending.

"'Tis a wise plan. It seems the King and Queen are overdue for a conversation."

Morrigan mirrored the motion of the other woman, standing and tilting her head to the other attendees. She put her hand on Caoilainn's shoulder. "You know where to find me."

Hawke and Philippa continued quibbling the details of Alistair's reaction on the way out of their room, following Fiona and Morrigan into the great hall; Nathaniel was nowhere in sight. Morrigan led the procession, only the footsteps of the group interrupted their silence, until Morrigan ushered them into a small sitting room. A few chairs faced the center, each mage sat until the Witch of the Wilds shut the door behind her with a pointed click.

"Your ignorance and idle words make a dangerous combination, Champion." She strode to the last empty chair in the small room.

Hawke chuckled, reclining back with his hands behind his head. "What can I say? It's a gift."

Settling in to an armchair, Philippa admonished Hawke, "We've a long trip ahead of us and you are inclined to make enemies before we depart. You should mind your tongue, young man."

"I'm well aware of what I do with my tongue, thank you." He rested his foot on his knee as he relaxed, unencumbered by the women's warnings.

"Enough." Fiona spoke with a calm tone, non-aggressive but direct. She glanced around the room. "We need to determine what supplies we will need, potions, and spells to heal the Wardens depending on what we find."

"My tomes of course," Philippa reflected Fiona's declaration with her own advice, "for reference."

"Useless," Morrigan snipped, rolling her eyes to Philippa. "You'll find nothing in your books accounting for the unexplainable. Warden magic is beyond the scope of circle mages."

Eyes narrowing, Philippa frowned. "Pity you underestimate the value of my texts. I assume the Witch of the Wilds was not taught how to read?"

Shaking her head, Morrigan scoffed. Before she could reply, Hawke chuckled. "Who's not minding their tongue now?"

Philippa snorted, irritated with the man's remark, but Fiona intervened again. "Please, we don't have time for these petty debates. We'll take only what is most necessary."

"Magic is not so complicated. Access to the Fade is innate and herbs you will gather along the way," Morrigan sighed.

"Your experience with seasonings will undoubtedly be useful, but I'd rather not gamble with blight magic on instinct alone," Philippa said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Whoa," Garrett Hawke lifted his hands, "We're not using blight magic, are we?" Genuine concern resounded from the jovial mage.

"We're not using blight magic." The former Grand Enchanter reiterated his question as a statement.

"Not necessarily," Philippa waved away their unease, "but what connects the darkspawn connects the Wardens. I must have reference to it."

Sideways glances passed between Hawke and Fiona, but they did not argue.

Morrigan's eyebrow rose. "You'll navigate magical _seasonings_ without my help." She thrummed her fingers on the arm of her chair and glanced toward the door. "I reserve my mana for aiding the Queen, wherever she may be on this trip."

Confused stares faced her; Philippa's mouth opened, prepared to challenge Morrigan's decision. Chuckling, Hawke answered, "Have no fear, ladies. I'll be all the apostate you need."

Resounding scoffs and rolled eyes followed his statement, but the mages continued their discussion, considering the minimal magical requirements for the trip to Weisshaupt. Morrigan remained quiet.

* * *

The sound of the door shutting reverberated through the silence around the royal couple, still seated in their chairs at the corner of the meeting table. Astonishment marked Alistair's face, and Caoilainn stared sheepishly. A moment later, he croaked, "Pregnant? As in, 'with child'?"

Lips pursed, consternated in the delivery of this heavy news, she confirmed with only one word, "Yes." Alistair's eyes tracked right to left, scanning his mind, searching inward for missing information to make sense of what she admitted.

Doubt caused trepidation; Alistair delayed his reply. "But how?"

"The cure worked," she shrugged, shaking her head to dismiss the irrelevance of the question. Caoilainn gave a mildly annoyed laugh, "I don't think I need to tell you where babies come from-"

"You're sure it's mine?"

The question knocked the wind out of her; a cold blow to the chest. Caoilainn's eyebrows wrinkled and she looked away, another wave of tears swelled. _This is not how this was supposed to go._

Flinching at her reaction, aware of the damage it caused, Alistair added a subsequent inquiry, "Ours, I mean? I'm sorry, Caoilainn, but with all these secrets..."

"Yes," she sighed. _I suppose I deserved that._ Blinking to look at him before staring back at the wall, she remarked, "It's your child."

The images she had predicted of his exuberant reaction dissolved, vanishing completely with his refrained response. Alistair only frowned, his brow creasing in thought after she confirmed the child's paternity. Her heart sank.

"A baby," Alistair mumbled, gnawing on the inside of his lower lip. Humming agreement, Caoilainn swallowed. "How long have you known?"

"A month." She put her thumb between her teeth and bit down, diligent in the determination of her next statement. "I didn't want to…" she clutched her hand shut, "to distract you from-" Her words tiptoed on the sensitive subject of their discourse and her rationalized deceit before trailing off.

"You didn't want the news I am having a child to pressure me into forgiving you?" He made sense of her sparse words, understanding her irrational nature.

She nodded. "You have every right to be angry with me."

"I'm glad you agree." Alistair gave a sarcastic chuckle, his hand rising to his forehead and brushing past his hairline. Shock lessened to disappointment. "But not telling me something this… big. Maker's breath, Caoilainn. How do you justify that?"

With a huff, Caoilainn crossed her arms and sighed, "Why would I tell you anything? Lately you've been nothing but a royal ass to me."

"Royal ass? Really?" He pushed his chair away from the table and stood. Taking time to consider his response, he faced away from Caoilainn. "And that is not an excuse. It's not your decision what I can't handle, especially not as punishment for being angry with you."

"It wasn't punishment!" Caoilainn's voice rose, retorting to Alistair's back. _Stay calm_ , she reminded herself, grabbing the handles of her chair to keep her from standing and screaming at him. "I told you: you have a right to be angry, but I have a right to protect myself."

Groaning, frustrated with her obstinance, Alistair shook his head. "For the love of-"

"What?" The urge to escalate this argument won. She stood up, the feet of the chair scraping on the stone floor. Cheeks hot, she blinked back tears. "How can we raise a child together if we hate each other?"

Alistair turned to face her, glaring with extended hands, palms facing. "You are _such_ an infuriating woman." He extended an exhale. The prominent veins in his forehead exposed his agitation. But both aware of the unhealthy level of her agitation, he offered half-hearted advice, "You should calm down."

"Do you want to be with me?" She snapped the question, her voice trembling; the blatant avoidance of her prior inquiry only stirred her pain. A few tears slid down her cheeks.

The reflex of her hand covering her belly occurred without thought, but Alistair closed his eyes, apparently pained by the gesture. "Do I have a choice?"

His words stung and her jaw dropped. Her other hand covered her chest, providing meager soothing to the growing pit. His response suggested the future of their marriage reduced to an eternity of apathy and obligation, cold shoulders and strained civility. Unable to divorce an irreparable union, trapped, tied to their duty to the kingdom and the image they had to uphold. She had barely survived his blatant disaffection for the last month, enduring it for the rest of her life wrought fear.

Caoilainn murmured, "I don't want to lose the baby." Sadness strained the body; she feared the stress could harm the child.

He watched her waist and his expression softened. A teary, frustrated mist coated Alistair's gaze but he rubbed his thumb and middle finger against his eyes. "I need to think, Caoilainn, for both of us. I'm going to Weisshaupt."

Her belly tightened. "What?"

"I need you to stay here." He gave an irritated sigh, and squeezed his eyes shut. When they opened, their downward slope translated his remorse. "I don't want to lose the baby either."

"Alistair, I'll be fine. We can keep figuring this out. We should be back long before he's due." Caoilainn took timid steps toward him.

Alistair's breath hitched. "He?"

Pausing mid-step, close enough to touch him, Caoilainn reached her hand out to graze his arm. She nodded. "Morrigan said it was likely. Please, let me help the Wardens."

The sad turn of his head joined his hands lifting between them. He made it so she could not come closer. "Not this time. I'm sorry, Caoilainn. I won't risk it and I... I need time alone."

She stared, lips parted, unable to argue. Unspoken words, the confession of her apprehension around experiencing pregnancy alone fell short. Alistair made another sigh and walked around Caoilainn, exiting the meeting room.


	5. Alone

_She had revealed the most significant secret he could fathom, and the reason she kept it, her lack of trust, marred what hope he had left. Pervasive doubt sank deep into his thoughts, shadowing what would have been the best discovery since he found Caoilainn at Skyhold, when he exuded confidence and certainty in the strength of their love, in winning her back. But his overconfidence proved preemptive. Insecurity and resentment stole their reunion; she continued keeping secrets, and his actions came from anger. It left him questioning his resilience for a future with her. He needed to get away._

 _"I'll be joining you," Alistair blurted._

 _He discovered the mages and Nathaniel Howe milling about the assembly room after breakfast the morning following the meeting. Discussing the events of the night prior, Alistair assumed, when their conversations ceased and startled faces turned to him._

 _Alistair took a deep breath and walked toward the table. He met the eyes of his new travel party as he repeated, "I'll be joining the mission." Lingering at Nathaniel Howe with narrowed eyes, Alistair held his stare until Nathaniel looked away, fixing his gaze at the table; the man's deliberate breathing a blatant mark of his discomfort._

 _Though Alistair despised the notion of joining a quest with the man who had slept with his wife, witnessing the Warden Commander's restrained despair satisfied the King. It provided a welcome contradiction to Howe's previous insolence._

 _Blank nods responded to his announcement until Philippa spoke on behalf of the group, smiling at the King, "Welcome, your Majesty. Your presence will be invaluable."_

 _"Truly," Nathaniel's agreed ironically. "Since that's been decided we can leave. Immediately." He stood from his seat._

 _With Alistair's attendance confirmed, the date of departure remained the final detail left unresolved after the abrupt end to the previous assembly- when Caoilainn had announced her pregnancy to the entire room._

 _"Not yet." Alistair stepped to his chair at the head of the table. "We'll leave tomorrow, first thing in the morning. I've king-business to set in order before we depart._ _"_

 _The muscles of Nathaniel's jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth_ _._

 _Hawke's eyes moved from Alistair to Nate, and his mouth spread to a mischievous grin. "I completely agree. We can't rush fun, right lads?"_

 _Ignoring Hawke's jibe, the Warden Commander kept his eyes on the King from the opposite end of the table. "With your leave, your Majesty, I have my own responsibilities as Warden Commander." He took a breath, easing his gaze. "If there is no need for me to stay, I will head back to the Keep today… your Majesty."_

 _The King snorted and paused, baffled at the Nathaniel Howe's audacity to return to Vigil's Keep alone_. Is this how it's going to be, Howe? _Though Alistair suspected the act of sedition by the Warden Commander served as a preview of the journey ahead, he did not argue._ The traitor can run home to his rude girlfriend. _The surprise brought relief. Traveling without Nathaniel Howe for this portion would be an early reprieve from the rest of the trip._

 _Alistair tilted his head toward the open door, and Nathaniel returned a rigid nod, then exited the room without another word. The impromptu meeting continued. Remaining members tied loose ends, assessed final needs and drew plans for acquisition of supplies before the rest of the party departed the next day._

Dawn had not yet arrived when Alistair awoke. He opened his eyes, taking a moment to recognize his unfamiliar location, a spare bedroom on the ground floor of the palace. The crackling of the fireplace in the Grand Hall was audible from his bedroom; the smoky scent of burning logs permeated through the door. The temperature had dropped while he slept. Mild temperatures relented to a cold front, marking the imminent winter and the first day of their journey.

Alistair rose, taking blind steps in the dark to find his clothes. Despite the early hours, the royal palace was active. Voices and footsteps carried through the hall. Jumbled words of varying speakers resonated; he dressed, not attempting to comprehend conversations, until he heard her name.

The unmistakable tone of the Warden sorceress carried through the hallway. Footsteps echoed until two people met outside his door. "Caoilainn, my dear? Can your men bring the horses to the front? We've got all our things."

"I'll send for them," the Queen's tone edged on impatience. The sound of steps followed the reply and he assumed Caoilainn walked away.

But Philippa made another inquiry, "You're sure you cannot join us?" A long pause followed, and Philippa added, "We need your experience, Caoilainn, Commander of the Grey."

Not hearing an immediate reply, Alistair stepped closer to his door, ears peeling to catch whatever he could of Caoilainn's response.

"I want to."

Alistair held his breath. The audible longing in Caoilainn's voice made him worry. Determined to hear the truth of her motives, the authenticity of her reply, he lingered by the door. The Wardens had been Caoilainn's lifeblood, offering haven and purpose when she had none. This particular soldier reserved decorum for convenience; addressing Caoilainn by the revered title as a plea to save the Wardens would provoke her sense of duty.

Caoilainn's voice lowered and Alistair's ear pressed against the wooden door, catching only parts of her reply. "Won't risk it, Philippa...our work to find a cure... to Skyhold...Arbor Wilds, the Ritual. It was for this." She cleared her throat and laughed. "Besides, Morrigan would kill me."

 _Morrigan wouldn't be the only one._ Alistair withheld the urge to laugh.

"Well," Philippa's etiquette disappeared, returning to her customary condescension. "I never grasped the compulsory urge for procreation of which you nobles seem so fond. To each her own, I suppose."

The footsteps of the two women veered down the hall, away from Alistair's temporary room. Sighing, he pondered Caoilainn's reply to Philippa as he gathered the rest of his items. Light armor promised a faster ride and less to carry. He strapped his sword to his back beneath a more maneuverable shield than his usual.

The snippets of her whispered message to Philippa matched her words to him the night prior.

 _"I don't want you to go," she murmured from the doorway of their bedroom._

 _Her voice caught his attention, but did not distract him from packing. In his peripheral vision, he noticed she already wore a nightgown and a robe. Uncommon for the Commander to remove her armor so early, he attributed the change to pregnancy._

 _Alistair mumbled a reply without looking up, "So I've gathered." He sighed; instant regret for his snide comeback ushered an added response_ _. He looked over his shoulder. "You know I need this time alone. And weren't you the one telling me we have a duty to the Wardens?"_

 _She took small steps toward him, and each apprehensive step of the notoriously bossy woman irritated him. Covert manipulation, she expected her timidity would change his mind._

 _"They don't even know if you'll be of use to them," she said, shaking her head as she spoke. She stopped walking halfway through the room. "It's a hunch."_

 _He let go of his bag, and arched a brow. "Are you willing to jeopardize your Wardens by ignoring a hunch, dear?" She would recognize the pointed endearment reserved for sarcasm. His humor seeped through his distance. "Or do you believe you'd be a more worthy companion?"_

 _Her silvery eyes narrowed, and her response was delayed. "No," she lied._

 _He turned his head from side to side, making a poor attempt to tame his cynical grin. "I'm not only going for them."  
She took a large step toward him. "I will give you space if that's what you need. Alistair, I don't want to do this alone."_

 _Alistair valued these rare moments when Caoilainn's tenacity faltered._

 _"You won't be alone," he assured her, appreciating her vulnerability and taking careful strides in her direction. His hands extended to her shoulders, keeping her at arm's length. "Morrigan is staying with you. She'll make sure you're safe until I return."_

 _Caoilainn's tension eased with his contact. Wary of her reaction to his touch, he remained conscious of her proximity as she replied, "I'm not having a child with Morrigan. I thought… I thought when I told you, you'd be happy."_

 _"Happy?" An incredulous laugh escaped him, and his brow creased._

 _His heart had thrummed persistently within his ribcage since Caoilainn's announcement, a conflicting reaction incongruent with his resentment for her._ _Images of the child formed, tiny hands and feet, a part of him and Caoilainn bound, developing inside her as they spoke._

 _Despite his questions, he'd known the child was his from the moment the words 'I'm pregnant,' had fallen from her lips. But anger had influenced his perception, and led to his foolhardy question of paternity, triggering embarrassment and ire. Still, he placed partial blame for his blindness on her secrecy._ _How could she understand the desire for family this once-impossible child would fulfill? It created a yearning so deep it stung. But it came under the most unfavorable terms._

 _His eyes burned at the thought and he blinked; letting go of her shoulders, he crossed his arms_ _._ _M_ _irroring him, Caoilainn's arms crossed over her chest. Her relaxed posture disappeared; she held a rigid stance, waiting for him to expand on his question_ _._

 _"You have no idea how happy I am, Caoilainn. More than I've been in," he raised an eyebrow at her, watching her glare at his profession of joy, "well, a very long time. And damn it, if I'm not angrier with you now more than ever at the same bloody time-" He snorted and looked at the wall behind her, unsure what else to say._

 _"I know," she snapped a reply, frowning. Stewing on her words, her bullheadedness faded. She caught the unhealthy escalation of her irritation and relaxed her arms. An elegant hand, strong from fighting, lay gently over her midsection. "I meant to say I'll miss you."_

 _Caoilainn's words carried more meaning than she realized. His eyes traveled from the wall to her gaze. Conflicted and desperate messages conveyed in her stare, but the enigmatic woman kept her added thoughts to herself._

 _"Is that so? Even though I've been, what was it you called me, a royal ass?"_

 _She blushed in embarrassment. The faintest giggle escaped her as she looked away, and in an instant, she glowed. Fair skin, flushed cheeks, features brightened by humor, and Maker's breath he hadn't realized how much he longed for the sound. The few seconds of reverberating notes sparked craving for more, disrupting his burden of inner conflict. He watched her lips, following the traces of her grin before it vanished._

 _She stared back at him. "What is it?"_

 _The question interrupted his fascination; Alistair caught himself ogling. He shook his head to clear his mind and swallowed his attraction_ _, snuffing the temptation to betray his convictions._

 _"Nothing," he lied. Stepping away from Caoilainn, he returned to their bed and grabbed his packed bag, securing the buckle as he replied, "I'll miss you too." Distance maintained, he swung the bag over his back. "I'm going to sleep in an extra room downstairs… so I don't wake you in the morning."_

To find she had awoken before him came as little surprise. Though tempted by her proclaimed devotion to him and their unborn child, he couldn't trust her. _It's too late now._ Their shared responsibility to the Wardens required him.

He walked outside from the great hall of the Royal Palace.

Sharp cold hit him; the tip of his nose tingled as he acclimated to the temperature. Patches of snow from the night prior collected around the trunks of trees and branches, and on the stairway of the palace.

Brought to the entrance from the stables, horses waited for their bags to be packed, their breath creating cloudy plumes through the cold as they nickered with impatience. Philippa, Fiona, and Hawke worked together to load their rides, while Morrigan stood with crossed arms a few paces away from Caoilainn, witnessing the other mages' attempt at cooperating.

Alistair's sweaty palms contrasted the cold when he spotted Caoilainn. She watched the group prepare to leave, bundled to combat the cold; the newly formed habit caught Alistair's eye. A protective hand shielded what grew within her, what they had created in the face of nearly insurmountable odds. His stomach turned with confused elation, luring him to stay with her in Denerim rather than join the quest ahead.

Understanding the explanation for her recent quirks and changes in behavior, her pregnancy had been evident for weeks. Her hair, the ashen braid along the side of her head hung loose as if she lacked the energy to control it. The way she slept, often and intentional, curled on her side to protect her womb. She rose early, not because guilt gnawed through her sleep but rather due to sickness. She delegated commands to his army; foregoing full armor. She hadn't fought with the same intensity in over a month.

The glimpse of the tender side of the stubborn, secretive woman defied his anger and disappointment, stirring his sentimental nature. He strode to her, and Caoilainn looked at him, subdued and non-reactive. Her attempts to force cordiality had ceased, replaced with reservation. Alistair leaned in and placed a perfunctory kiss on Caoilainn's cheek. The briefest furrow of her brow lasted only a second before he fumbled through an awkward farewell and a stilted 'I love you.' The words were nearly drowned out by others' voices and clopping hooves.

The statement was true. His questions of commitment and the fate of their marriage did not change the fact. She knew it, he was certain. Withholding her efforts to dissuade him from leaving, Caoilainn tightened her lips before returning the sentiment. "I love you too," she replied, almost a question.

Sunlight peeked over the Denerim skyline, highlighting the fast-approaching journey, their separation. The daybreak did not lessen the frigid temperatures, but assured his need to leave before he changed his mind.

"This shouldn't take more than a few months," Alistair gave a timeframe to settle his anxiety as much as her own. "That is, if it all goes smoothly."

"It won't." She sighed, making a half-hearted offer. "But take as long as you need, Alistair."

Pending the end of their moment together, daunted by its potential finality, he wanted to hold her, to assure their healing, and guarantee successful parenthood. But empty promises served none and he ignored the urge. She settled her concerns of ruling alone and pregnant, and confirmed Teagan's added support. Affections muted by boundaries, the couple's final conversation ended with a few more words.

* * *

Brisk surges of wind animated the grassy hills. Chills crept up Nathaniel's spine as he kept his horse at a tempered pace back to Vigil's Keep. The gelding needed rest. Brief sprints gained distance but the bite of crisp weather stung. Nate found respite in the slowed canter, absorbing the sun until he sprinted again.

He'd return to Vigil's Keep in two nights if he kept good time and met no bandits. Since the Inquisition's successful efforts, the roads were safer. Fereldans enjoyed the peace of closed rifts, free of demons, and Red Templars who had wreaked havoc on both villages and countryside. The land healed with the guidance and care of King Alistair.

For now, the easy pace gave Nate solitude, relief from the anxious Wardens at Vigil's Keep, and the arrogant King in Denerim. Nathaniel rolled his eyes and sighed, recalling Caoilainn's timidity at the meeting. As hard as he had tried to stare at the wall of the palace, he could not miss her attempts at affection with the King. The man's avoidance and blatant disrespect for the most powerful woman Nate knew left a bad taste in his mouth. Worse yet, Caoilainn took Alistair's disregard in stride, tolerating the impudent behavior in a manner uncharacteristic of the former Warden Commander.

 _Did I cause this?_ If he had not continued the affair for so long, Alistair's treatment of Caoilainn could be different. He might not have made her leave the Wardens. Nate scowled; the former sense of pride for the debauched conquest disappeared, replaced with guilt for his part in the repercussions now inflicting the entire order.

His view of relationships had grown from noncommittal indulgence. _Damn it, Hale._ Thanks to the Huntress, previous judgment of the misled ideals of monogamy had involuntarily morphed into an odd understanding of the attraction. New awareness forced acceptance of responsibility for the royal couple's marital discord. He cringed, nudging the horse into a quicker gait with his heel.

Regret did not diminish loathing. No matter his new comprehension of meaningful relationships, whatever drew Caoilainn to Alistair, in all his overblown perfection, distracted her from the Wardens. The obligation to cooperate with the man responsible for the loss of the Mother of Griffons revolted Nathaniel.

He clicked his tongue and gave another nudge with his heel into the horse's flank; the creature neighed with annoyance but increased his speed to a gallop. Balancing posture, Nathaniel's feet pressed firmly into the stirrups. His thoughts dissolved into the blurring scenery. He summoned resolve, sustaining the intensity of the ride and the challenges that awaited, all in an effort to recover the Wardens. A fortunate recompense to the impending ordeal waited at his destination. The Huntress.


	6. Partners

_"Changes in any of 'em?" Hale looked up from an unconscious Damia. Her friend rested, trapped in a dreamless sleep in the sick wing of Vigil's Keep. Twenty-plus beds occupied by sleeping bodies; Wardens held in magically-induced rest as they sought a cure._

 _"We haven't lifted their spells enough to find out." The healer checked the status of another Warden on the gurney next to Damia, glancing up at Hale as he spoke. "We don't know enough about the affliction to risk it. Hopefully the Warden Commander will have some insight when he returns from Denerim."_

 _Rolling her eyes, she gave Aiden a dead stare. "Right. 'Cause that's all they needed. For Nate," she corrected herself, "I mean, the Warden Commander to have sodding tea with the King and it'll all be better." Hale squeezed Damia's hand. "Risks are worth it. We gotta do something."_

 _"It's not so simple with magic." Shaking his head, Aiden moved around the gurney to check on Damia. He gave a meek smile to Hale, watching the obstinate young woman care for her older friend. "Any risks we take could more widespread consequences than one Warden, or even the Wardens at Vigil's Keep. As we've learned from recent events, we could further compromise the entire Order and that could be permanent."_

 _"Well," she sighed, and caressed Damia's hair away from her face as Aiden renewed Damia's spell. "Fuck all then."_

Hills gave way to snow-capped mountains north of Vigil's Keep. Trees lined the rocky terrain, littering the ground with brown and orange, varying shades of dead leaves. The land made for fertile hunting, even with symptoms of the approaching winter changing the environment. Nugs from the nearby Deep Roads entrance wandered through a pass, traveling in a small pack.

Gloved digits relaxed from a bowstring, loosing an arrow into the still air. "Shite." The Huntress whispered, knowing the shot would miss its target as soon as it soared. She opened both eyes to watch the arrow fly by a grazing nug. The creature screeched, alerting the nearby nugs of a predator, then ran from the direction of the arrow. Its companions followed.

"Fucking bollocks." A small cloud of air formed where Hale huffed, quickly dissipating. She leaned back against the trunk of the tree where she perched, tapping her bow against the branch supporting her while she watched the first stages of sunset. Red and yellow tinged the sky, reflecting the autumn treetops.

Since her return to Vigil's Keep from Skyhold, Hale had spent downtime from Warden duties in the mountains. Nature provided refuge from comrades, freedom from responsibility. Because even with the new discovery of friends, chosen family in fellow Warden-scouts, she needed time alone. Escaping the mayhem at the Keep seemed necessary. Tense conversations and worried chatter filled the halls; concerns about the sickness impacting select brethren preoccupied most Wardens' minds, infecting her own when she allowed it. In Nate's absence, many Wardens brought their questions to her. Their fears were valid. Her relationship with Nate gave Hale insight to the precarious state of the Order of the Grey.

Wardens, and worse, Damia came to harm because the Bitch Queen Commander finally found her bloody cure, leaving the bond only to pursue selfish interests like marriage and kids . It made Hale gag. She had sampled abandoning her fellow misfits and Nate when she'd stayed behind with the Inquisition. No matter how much alcohol she drank, she couldn't ignore the craving of the bond, the longing for Nate. The recollection made a chill creep through her armor. Layers of wool, leather, and chainmail could not keep the low temperatures and painful memories at bay.

She closed her eyes to channel her mind. The Bond hummed consistently in the distance. Her connection to the collective thrummed through her bloodstream, warming her from the inside. But it lacked something vital, the warmth of her bond with the Warden Commander.

 _"_ Fucking Nate," she growled, pushing off her spot. Nimble limbs balanced on branches, carefully descending the tree to the craggy forest floor.

In practice at Vigil's Keep her arrows still landed on targets and pierced dummies, but over the last week her reliable outlet failed. When the huntress snuck away to find solitude in a hunt, shots repeatedly missed by a hair. Something was off, and she could no longer blame the missed shots on the recent cold. Admitting impairment due to Nate's absence irritated her more than the failed hunts.

"He better sodding get home soon," she mumbled to herself. He should've returned two days prior if all had gone according to plan.

An inkling of discomfort gnawed at the back of Hale's mind. _Why'd he wanna stay any longer with those traitors? That bitch._ She shook her head, pushing down her dislike for the queen by focusing her steps. Rocks protruded from the underbrush of the untrodden land; Hale kept her balance on the pathless decline, begrudgingly heading back toward the keep empty handed.

The trek was short, less than an hour by foot and she made it before the sun set. Buzzing connection, the hum of the Wardens strengthened as she neared, and it was powerful. She had planned to hurry and change into a clean gambeson, but a lone horse tied near the main hall caught her attention _._ Her heart-fluttered with relieved excitement _._

 _"_ Nate." She whispered aloud, hurrying to the main entrance. She realized he hadn't even unloaded his items from the horse's bags as she passed.

Curious steps carried her to the front door. Knowing Nate well enough, Hale prepared to head straight to his office to give him a proper greeting. _Gotta scold him for being gone so long. Then I'll show him how much I missed him._ Her lips involuntarily curved to a mischievous grin as she opened the door.

But the smile faded. Hale's eyes narrowed on Nate who stood halfway up the stairs. Sunken eyes showed exhaustion, disheveled hair and dirty tabard suggested his ride home had been strenuous. Nate frowned down at one of his Lieutenants, standing near the stairs. Hale's head cocked to the side, focusing her attention on the conversation she overheard.

"The Junior Wardens are panicking about the illness, Commander. Another fell today, and the unaffected want assurance they won't be next. Some are refusing their duties until they receive it." The Lieutenant held a straight posture, his hands clasped behind him as he addressed Nate.

Nate shook his head, and continued ascending the steps, either not noticing or completely ignoring Hale in the doorway. "I'm sure you will figure something out. Find the Constable."

Lieutenant Isenam's footsteps echoed as he walked from the main hall to the entry. His focused stare followed the communication between the Lieutenant Cyan and the Warden Commander.

"Commander," the new Lieutenant remained calm, but the question in his tone was audible, "pardon me; the Constable is in Amaranthine per your order, sir. I'm certain hopeful words from you will calm them for now."

With an aggravated sigh, Nathaniel took a step down the stairs. "I'm not available. They are Wardens, not children. You can tell them to grow the fuck up." Not offering any other guidance, he turned his back and continued pacing up the stairs.

 _He's daft._ Hale's jaw fell open, shocked by Nate's unprofessional and uncharacteristic behavior. Left to deal with the anxious fears of her comrades in his absence, she expected more from her duty-bound partner. Glaring at him as he walked away, she took a large step toward the stairway. "Oi! That's a right thing for the Commander to say, innit?"

Nate stopped at the top of the stairs and snorted. Without turning around, he addressed the Huntress. "I've told you insubordination is unacceptable, Hale. Add kitchen duty to your nightly responsibilities until I say otherwise."

She pointed her finger at his turned back. "That's bollocks and you know it!"

Nate turned around to face her, staring down from the upper level of the keep and frowning. "I can add more work to the list."

Glaring up at him, she gritted her teeth. The temptation to say more, to challenge his punishment as proof of her initial statement roiled in her gut. Anger made her head dizzy. Nate lifted a brow. She knew the look. He was waiting for her retaliation to earn another mark on her record.

 _Sodding prick wanker._ Hale growled and stormed off toward the dining hall.

Nate pressed his lips together. _I can't let her get away with everything._ Trudging from the wooden stairway, he hurried to his office at the end of the hall before any other Wardens could interrupt him. The door closed behind him and Nate pressed against it with a sigh. Having his authority challenged by Hale heightened his anger, but his heart rate eased in the silence.

 _I have more important matters to address._ He responded to her insult in his mind, arguing in favor of not addressing the Junior Wardens himself as the Lieutenant had requested. Groaning, he took the steps to his desk and sat down. His fingers pressed into his forehead as he leaned back, deciding on his preparation for the King's arrival the next day.

A knock came at his door and Nate looked up. _Hale wouldn't knock._ His frown deepened, pondering who would have the gall to bother him. Another knock preceded the door opening.

"Warden Commander," Isenam bowed his head. "May I come in?"

Nate took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose, pondering his answer to the question. One of Nathaniel's most trusted advisors, the elven man, a Senior Warden, and now Lieutenant had always been honest about his concerns, including when he advised Nathaniel to end his relationship with Hale. Taking Isenam's advice had not served Nathaniel, and had nearly cost him the Huntress. Despite that incident, Nathaniel trusted Isenam.

Without a word, Nathaniel nodded for the man to enter.

Isenam walked into the room and remained standing. "Cyan is not equipped to calm the nerves of the new Wardens."

 _Really?_ Nate rolled his eyes. "Then you deal with it, Isenam."

"If it were me the Wardens needed to hear from, I would." Isenam's tone remained neutral, unchanged by Nathaniel's agitation. "Your…" he drew the word out, delaying to find the best way to describe Hale, "young friend is perceptive."

A cynical laugh escaped the Commander. "Was that a backhanded way of saying I'm immature?"

"You are perceptive yourself," a tiny smirk broke through Isenam's stoicism, "Commander."

Exhausted on all accounts by the unfortunate situation surrounding him, Nate couldn't help but laugh. He shook his head; though overwhelmed, Nate valued Isenam's honesty.

"I have nothing hopeful to say to them, Isenam. _I_ am not equipped for this." Professionalism faded, Nathaniel explained the uncertainty about the Warden sickness, the mission to Weisshaupt, and King Alistair's arrival the following day, along with the rest of the travel party.

"Your presence speaks more than words." The elf's certainty gave hope. "Do you believe there is a cure for whatever impairs the order?"

Nate creased his forehead; he determined his answer before he spoke. "If there is a cure, this group will find it."

"And if there is not one?" A simple twitch in Isenam's eyes caught Nathaniel's attention.

 _He's afraid._ Nathaniel determined the Lieutenant's questions aimed to settle his concerns as much as Nathaniel's. "Then the Order will change. It has been rebuilt before."

The man blinked, holding his eyes closed a moment longer than normal. When he opened them, he stared at Nathaniel and bowed. "I recommend you communicate that to the Junior Wardens."

Nathaniel gave a simple nod. "Thank you, Isenam."

Bowing again, the Lieutenant returned to the door, preparing to leave. His hand reached toward the handle and he looked to Nathaniel again. "Your partner is brash and impulsive."

"I'm aware." Nathaniel sighed, rolling his shoulder to loosen muscles still tight from riding.

"She is brave to confront you." Not waiting for a reply, Isenam gave another small dip of his head, and departed.

"Only when she knows she's right," Nate muttered to the closed door and gazed around his office. Blurry lines drawn between his responsibilities and personal life came so far as his workspace, which also served as his bedroom. The tidy desk organized his work, and his room, usually well kept, held reminders of Hale's influence. Her breast band hid partially under the head of his bed, of which the splintered headboard gave evidence of their forays. _I should replace that._

Her hairbrush lay on his bedside table; left among his belongings. None of her trinkets intruded on his desk, a passive display of her respect for his work. After calming the Wardens he needed to apologize to her.

Rising from his chair, Nate removed layers of light armor, and pulled off the Warden gambeson as he walked to the sink basin in the corner of his room. Worries pulled him back to the mission ahead. The vague plan unsettled him; a month's travel to a destination with an unclear goal. Three mages, the King of Ferelden fighting sword and shield, and Nathaniel a lone archer and scout made an unfit team to confront the unknown enemies they could face. But the trip would be slowed drastically by a larger party.

Lost in thought, Nate dipped a linen cloth into the basin and wrung the fabric; he barely noticed the trickling of the water back into the basin. The calming coolness of the cloth to his neck, face, and shoulders contradicted the anxious thoughts of the quest as he washed off the sweat and dirt of the rushed trip home.

With a new shirt donned, and a clean gambeson secured over, Nate proceeded to the dining hall. Divided by ranks, Junior Wardens and Senior Wardens occupied separate rows of tables. Officers sat together, and the scouts did the same. Hale sat among her comrades, those unaffected by the illness. The small group engaged in reserved conversation, Hale leading the dialogue. He walked past their table to the wall at the other end of the room.

When Wardens first began falling to the disruption in the bond, the soldiers were unsettled. Meals eaten in silence, worried whispers pondered the source of the disruption. Now they voiced their questions aloud, struggling to come to terms with the risk they all faced, while continuing with their lives and responsibilities.

Curious eyes followed Nathaniel to the head of the room. Wardens watched him, quieting conversations, eager to hear any news he brought regarding their status. Clearing his throat, Nate summoned the attention of the room, chatter ceased to silence down the hall.

Years of listening to Caoilainn's powerful speeches had not prepared Nathaniel. With the knowledge his speeches would never compare, he settled for simplistic.

He spoke low and clear, unwilling to yell or raise his voice above its usual gruffness. His hands remained by his sides. "Wardens, I will not lie to you. Your fears are valid, and as this illness claims more, the solution remains unclear. Our Order is at risk." He paused, considering his next words. "But I will not idly wait for it to be destroyed. The King of Ferelden, himself a former Warden, will arrive at Vigil's Keep tomorrow in preparation for a quest to Weisshaupt. I will be joining him and a select team of mages. We will search for a cure and no matter the outcome, we will rebuild."

A few slow claps echoed in the silence before the patrons realized the rest of the room did not join in applause. Faces showed confusion, mouths open, eyebrows scrunched; stares held on Nathaniel, seeking more, _any_ information about the sickness that haunted them, answers to the nerve-wracking fears that plagued them all, but he had none. Nathaniel did not open the room to discussion; he did not offer to take questions.

Nodding to his audience, he muttered for them to enjoy their meals. Whispers of Caoilainn, the former Commander resonated around him, but he did not address them. Instead, he walked the direction from which he came, this time pausing at the scouts' table. He stood behind Hale; the woman kept her back turned, facing her companions. Nate cleared his throat again. "Hale, please join me in my office."

Ignoring him, the Huntress took another bite of her food. The food teased him. Hunger pains stabbed the inside of his stomach, but he ignored the discomfort, and waited to see how Hale would respond.

Hale made a wry laugh, and pushed away her bowl. She rose from her seat, lanky legs stepping over the bench she shared with her comrades. Sighing, Nate continued his walk out of the dining hall, glancing over his shoulder to spot Hale giving a sarcastic wave to her friends.

Persistent strides took him through the hallway, avoiding the still-seeking stares of Wardens who had not returned to their meals. Hale's steps followed behind, not joining his side; reminding him of his position as her superior and not simply her partner. Frustrated with the woman, relating to her anger, he tamed his annoyance so they could reach his room.

Nathaniel let Hale in first, inhaling the reminiscent scent of the forest as she passed. The woman strode to the center of his room, and turned to face him; dismissive of his decorum, she crossed her arms. Smeared make-up and messy-hair suggested she had recently returned from a hunt, something he'd missed when he'd scolded her earlier that evening. The rebellious creature reliably contrasted the order of his office.

Nate let the door click shut behind him, and walked past Hale to sit on the edge of his desk.

Her eyes followed him, and her feet turned his direction. Hale's arms still crossed, she tilted her head with curiosity.

He exhaled through his nose. "I'm sorry."

With a huff, Hale straightened her posture. "Don't be. You warned me before you left."

"But you were right." Nate's hand massaged the back of his neck and he looked toward the ground. "I was not taking responsibility as Commander."

Rigid posture softened; Hale shifted on her feet. "Well, I could've said it different. Didn't know king whoreson's on his way, and now you're leaving again." The sad lilt in her voice with her last statement stirred something in Nate's chest.

He gave a weak smile, appreciating Hale identifying the source of his stress. "You could have, that's true. And yes, I am." He paused, focusing on her stare. "I want you to go with me."

Her eyebrows lifted, surprised and amused. She giggled. "I can't. Some arsehole put me on kitchen duties."

Chuckling, Nate shook his head. "I retract the punishment. I need another scout and fighter." He had made his choice before his speech to the Wardens. Though young and newer to the order than the Senior Wardens, Hale's skills were invaluable, and selfishly, he would appreciate her company on the trip.

"Really?" Wide eyes stared at him, twinkling with the excitement of a new adventure. "You want me to join you, with the King, all the way to Weiss-it-called. That's a big sodding deal." A passing thought pulled her attention; she put her hands on her hips. "But I don't want yer special fucking treatment, Nate."

The words bit and he flinched, holding his tongue. _That's a lie._ Pressing his lips together, Nate took a breath before responding, torn between arguing with her and avoiding confrontation prior to his trip.

"You're a gifted scout." Nate crossed his arms this time. "You're proficient with a bow, adequate with daggers, and I like it when you're near me. I'm not willing to lie about that."

Blushing, Hale looked at her boots. "I wanted to be here when Damia wakes up." She glanced up sheepishly.

He hummed acknowledgment, closed his eyes, and nodded. Hale's relationship with the other scout predated theirs. Not the jealous type, lacking understanding of banal rules of coupling, Nate attempted to quash any sense of possession over the Huntress. Without formalities of monogamy, their relationship was unencumbered by unmet expectations. But even after she admitted her love, and he reciprocated, his feelings for the young woman grew.

"I understand." The best he could; Hale's experience with partnership was just as inhibited. Yet words requesting an exclusive relationship sat on the tip of his tongue. "I can take another scout if you would rather stay with Damia, but I need you to choose."

For a half-second, her forehead knitted with suspicion. But the moment passed, and her expression eased to an earnest stare; Hale nodded agreement. She stepped to him and smiled. "Yer starkers if you think you could leave without me." Another giggle and she added, "But you know I'll probly piss off the king, right?"

"I'm counting on it." Nate laughed audibly, and pulled her in for a kiss.


	7. The North Road

Fiona followed the other riders along the North Road. They kept a steady pace, relief from hard riding, now trotting through the hilly land. Light breezes carried a persistent chill; Fiona pulled her cloak tight around her. The repetitive motion of her horse trotting and the monotony of trees passing in her periphery made a feeble distraction from the mages bickering ahead. Adept and inclined to irritate Philippa, the Champion of Kirkwall was amusing himself.

Similar to Fiona, Alistair rode in silence at her side. Worry needled her mind, and though she tried to not to, she kept looking at him. Each time, it landed on a man lost in thought; downcast eyes, and an inattentive frown, sometimes his head tilted from side to side as if weighing options in an inner monologue.

She sighed; frustrated with the circumstances, the sight of him unhappy and her hesitation to help. _He can't find out._ She had long since vowed to keep distance, swearing he could never find out the truth of his parentage. Yet from the moment Fiona began helping the Inquisition, she had slipped. Asking the Inquisitor about Alistair after the events at Redcliffe, healing his wife on the battlefield in the Arbor Wilds, joining with Philippa and Morrigan to cure them both, she teetered close to the line she had established to protect herself, to protect him from knowing the truth.

 _"Your father would be proud."_ Fiona still scolded herself for the verbal blunder she'd made before he left Skyhold. Immediate confusion had crossed his face; his eyes had filled with questions that she could not answer. Instead, she had left Alistair to take of his wife as the couple healed from the cure.

When she'd met Alistair again at Denerim Palace it seemed the inquiries had faded. Both relieved and saddened to find more pressing matters had taken priority for him; she assumed the situation with the Wardens, and whatever tension grew between him and his wife took precedence. From listening to conversations between Philippa and Morrigan, Fiona had surmised what had happened between the Queen and Warden Commander Howe. Fiona diligently refrained from creating opinions on the woman. Certain the Hero of Ferelden, the woman Alistair loved, held some redeeming qualities; Fiona found herself unable to judge. She had abandoned her baby. _What worse betrayal is there?_

As her thoughts wandered, the bickering between Philippa and Hawke grew louder, pulling Fiona from her attention. She slowed her horse, noticing the same from Alistair as he came out of his personal introspection.

The sorceress yelled. "Degenerate son of a bitch! I will not be spoken to in such a way by anyone, Champion or not." Philippa's horse neighed in response to her exclamation.

"What?" Hawke's grin was audible through his mock surprise. "It was a compliment. Whatever age-reversing magic you are using _is_ working wonders. And my mother was the kindest woman I have ever met, thank you."

"Enough!" Philippa pulled the reins of her mare until it came to a halt. Hawke's horse made it a few strides further up the path before he did the same and turned around.  
The sorceress sat straighter, rigid posture and pinched lips. She addressed Alistair. "Excuse me, your majesty. But with the approaching dusk, I would say this is a good place for us to stop." She glanced toward Fiona and widened her eyes, nodding her head. "Don't you agree, Fiona?"

Sunset neared, but they still had at least another half hour they could continue their trek. But Philippa was right. The spot would make a good location for camp. A clearing near the top of a hill, nearby trees provided enough cover. It would allow a lookout to monitor any approaching travelers long before their arrival, without giving their location away to any bandits.

Alistair glanced to Fiona and she shrugged, giving a tilted nod to confirm. He smiled weakly. "We'll camp here then."  
Hawke made no argument so the group dismounted and tied their horses. The group set their tents around a small campfire as evening fell. Brisk weather had followed them from Denerim. The sunlight's meager warmth vanished by the time dusk came.

They sat near the fire as they ate their rations for the night. Hawke hummed to himself; a glazed look over his eyes suggested he daydreamed. The sorceress, Philippa, held a bread roll in one hand and generated magical light with another; she studied the content of a large text open in her lap. Alistair stared into the fire. He barely touched his food.

 _Should I say something?_ Fiona fidgeted, flexing her hand as she debated starting conversation; to let Alistair find a distraction from whatever unpleasant thoughts she imagined occupied his mind, or at least vent them for someone else to hear.

"I will take watch first tomorrow if I can sleep tonight." Alistair blinked out of his thoughts and vocalized the offer to the group.

Philippa twirled her hand to usher Alistair to do what he wanted, allowing her to return to her book.

The other three divided responsibilities. Hawke offered to take watch first and Fiona offered second. Once she agreed, Alistair went to his tent without another word and Fiona's opportunity to talk with him disappeared. She pressed her lips together.

 _Probably for the best._ Not talking to Alistair would repair those boundaries she had established and recently ignored. The regret diminished, but her concern remained as she finished her meal and went to bed.

Despite the concerns for Alistair, she quickly found sleep for the first half of the night until Hawke woke her.

"Fiona, it's your turn." Hawke's yawning voice woke her.

She opened her eyes, reorienting herself with her location and task.

"I'll be right there." Rising from her bedroll, she grabbed a coat. An extra layer of clothes to help keep her warm in the hours of silence she was about to endure.

When she walked out of her tent, she spotted the campfire still blazing. Hawke had tended it well. Standing near his tent, his staff in one hand, Hawke narrowed his eyes at Fiona.

"Should be a fun night... morning." He chuckled, correcting himself. After another yawn, he refocused his gaze on her. "So... what's your story, _Fiona?"_

 _Why did he say my name like that?_ She wrinkled her forehead at the question. "Not an interesting one."

"Certainly one such as yourself, former Grand Enchanter, would have some interesting stories to tell." He flourished his hand in her direction to give a half bow.

 _Does he know?_ She had not divulged her time with the Wardens to any in the group. Her history with the order would provoke too many unwanted questions.

"Not really." She blinked slowly, trying to ignore the distinct pounding of her heart in her ears. "The disaster at Redcliff is well known enough. I don't think you need me to explain."

"I heard about it." Hawke nodded and stood straighter. "I'm more interested in what your life was like before you were Grand Enchanter. Would anyone be looking for you?"

"Not that I can think of." She shook her head and yawned, stretching before she sat down. "Now that's answered, can I interrogate you?"

"I'm an open book." He grinned and crossed his arms. "What do you want to know?"

"Does it work?" Settling into her spot by the campfire, the weight of fear lifted from her shoulders, relieved at the change in topic.

"Hm? You'll have to be more specific. I have a lot of things that work quite well."

She gave a small smirk. "Your sarcasm. Does it help you forget about what you saw in Kirkwall?"

His eyes widened before his smile returned. "Ooh. Nice one. Low blow, but well done."

"I'll take that as a no." She pursed her lips in a sympathetic frown.

"I," he started, prepared to respond, but he stopped and looked away. When he looked back, he mumbled, "I need to go to bed."

Without another word, Hawke entered his tent.

"Sleep well, Hawke." Fiona spoke loud enough for him to hear over the campfire.

She settled into her spot to take watch. Stars filled the night sky, providing sufficient light of the expanse of land on either side. She stared into the crackling fire pit; its dancing flames illuminating their camp. During occasional scans around the vicinity, she rose and checked the distance on all sides of their location. When the campfire waned, she added firewood.

The hours dragged. Heavy blinks warned of sleep taking her, and Fiona pinched her arm. After enough times, she took her canteen and trickled a few drops of the icy water into her hands to splash her face. It woke her up but prompted chill. She wrapped her cloak even tighter.

But the uneventful watch ended when a distant light appeared rounding the curve of the neighboring hilltop, following the path from the direction of Vigil's Keep. Fiona narrowed her eyes to see if she could define the source, but it was too far away. The light, an orange spot, must have been a lantern. It moved toward their encampment.

She wrung her hands, watching the distant light growing closer. It was too late to extinguish the fire; she needed to wake the others.

"Hawke," she rasped, sticking her head in his tent.

The mage had curled up under his bedclothes, his mouth gaping as he slept. She grabbed his foot and shook it, calling louder this time, "Hawke!"

He grumbled.

"Hawke! Someone is coming!" She said again, pulling off his blanket.

"Andraste's-" Hawke stammered, this chill waking him. "I'm up. I'm up. What is it?"

"Someone's coming. Fast." She looked out the tent toward the moving form. It was already halfway to their camp.

"On it." He rose and pulled a jacket on, not bothering to fasten it.

The pair split their efforts and woke the other two up. Fiona went to Philippa's tent as Hawke woke Alistair, informing them to grab their weapons; the pair rushed out of their beds, dazed, and stumbling over questions.

"It feels like darkspawn, but it's coming from the Keep and those wretched demons don't use lanterns." Philippa frowned; the only one among them with the ability to sense the creatures, she distanced herself from the camp. Her comrades followed.

"Get ready." The familiar wave of Fade energy resonated from Hawke's staff. Fiona did the same, accessing the power within the cool connection to the parallel realm.

"Great," Alistair muttered, pulling his sword from its sheath. "First night of our trip and something's gone wrong."

"Bitching about it serves less purpose than breasts on a bull." Philippa side-eyed the King and powered her staff.

The person neared; a human with bright red hair in a tattered Warden uniform. Fiona lowered her staff, releasing her grip on the magical power she held in her mind. This was no enemy. But as the unnamed Warden drew closer, she noticed his sallow skin and sunken eyes, white and glazed.

"Ben?" Hand extended, Philippa stepped forward, reaching toward her fellow soldier.

Hawke placed his hand on Philippa's shoulder. "I wouldn't."

"A ghoul," Alistair cringed, scowling at the visitor.

The man spoke but his expression remained blank, emotionless. "Help me, please."

"Not quite," Hawke looked over his shoulder to Alistair. "I've seen this before."

Fiona had also seen ghouls; Utha, her comrade in the Deep Roads, among others during the Blight. However, this man appeared to be conscious, and troubled by his situation.

"Please-" The ghoul lunged toward Philippa; she gasped and jumped back, initiating a spell. A ball of flames surrounded the head of her staff. Hawke, Alistair, and Fiona surrounded Philippa, protecting her from Ben.

"Please, this madness. I can't take it. Just kill me." Begging without fervor, Ben drawled, slow lifeless speech.

"What madness, Ben? Tell us." Fiona's soft words coaxed more information from the man.

"I can't." He shook his head. "I ran from the Keep when I felt it. They don't want me to sleep that way. Like the others."

 _The way the healers induce dreamless sleep in the sick wing._ Fiona suspected meaning from the young man's confession. _Something is calling him from the Fade._

"Who is they?" She pressed her hand down on the air, calming him. "Do you mean darkspawn?"

"No. I can't say."

Standing straighter, Philippa's forehead creased. "We need more information, Ben, for the Order. We won't take your life unless you help us."  
"Why can't he do that himself?" Alistair let his sword hand lower as he vocalized the question to no one in particular. He looked around him to the group.

"They won't let me." Ben stepped toward them.

"You," Hawke leaned his staff toward Ben, "you don't come any closer."

"I don't want to hurt anyone." The ghoul took another step.

Magic induced vibrations rang through Fiona's bones as Hawke threw a spell at Ben.  
"No!" She yelled in unison with Philippa, both women reaching their hands out to Hawke from either side. Killing Ben too early prevented them from gathering useful information to help the Wardens at the Keep.

It was too late. The spell had landed; the reverberation of its power still surrounding them. The women stared at Hawke with wide eyes, exasperated at his impulsiveness. Hawke ignored them, keeping his eyes locked ahead.

Philippa huffed, "Idiot-"

"Look," Alistair dipped his head toward the ghoul.

Fiona looked away from Hawke to the Warden. Trapped in a magical prison, he continued mumbling emotionless pleas, inaudible over the sound of the active spell's vibrations. He seemed to be in pain.

"It's hurting him." Grimacing, Alistair whispered.

"It won't kill him, but I can't hold this forever." Hawke strained to talk, yelling for them all to hear over the sound of the cage. "He'll go to the darkspawn, or whoever 'they' is, and they'll use him for Maker knows what if we don't end it now."  
"Who is controlling you if not darkspawn, Ben? We need to know." Philippa called to Ben through his cage.

"Is it a demon? Demons?" Fiona asked.

The trapped man only shook his head in response, his mouth forming 'no.'

 _We have no choice._ Realizing the outcome, Fiona sighed. She made eye contact with Philippa who nodded back. It seemed Alistair comprehended their decision without words. He looked away.

Strong entropic magic brought a chill to Fiona's spine as Philippa employed her mana, crossing the Veil and pulling from the Fade. The sorceress's eyes closed for a small second, she inhaled and channeled the spell to Ben. The man screamed in his cage, but they could not hear him over the sound of Hawke's prison. Seconds ticked, any color left in Ben's cheeks drained as the man deteriorated to lifelessness. He fell to the ground; Hawke's spell lifted at the same time. Silence replaced the loud magic; Fiona's ears rang.

With a large exhale, Hawke muttered, "Well, that was... informative."

Fiona did not have the will to agree aloud. "We should burn the body."

Alistair pushed between the mages and walked toward Ben. "I know I'm not going back to bed after all that." He pointed to their tents. "We can build a pyre from the campfire."

The group agreed and packed their camp without speaking. After clearing more land for a larger fire, they created a trench around the area, a safety measure so the fire did not spread. In silence, Hawke and Alistair carried Ben's body over the fire and stepped away. The four circled the trench, and Fiona powered the campfire flames engulfing the body, reaching upward, roaring. Philippa closed her eyes, whispering a few words for her fallen brethren. The rest did the same, paying their respects, unable to hear each other. It was as ceremonious as they could manage under the circumstances.

Dawn broke, a cloudy sunrise muffling any scenic views. The makeshift pyre blazed, but the group did not linger. Bags loaded onto their horses, they rode out, an early start on their second day toward Vigil's Keep.

The ride went quicker, or at least it seemed that way without Philippa and Hawke bickering at each other. It gave Fiona more room to think. In periods between galloping, when the horses needed breaks, Philippa and Hawke engaged in sporadic bursts of conversation, sharing theories about Ben and the Wardens. Less often, Fiona added her experience to the mage's dialogue. They utilized the time to discuss potential solutions to the Warden illness, with the new information the encounter with Ben provided.

Alistair stayed reticent, contributing his observations to the group when appropriate with a touch of dry humor in every statement. But when he was on his own, his expression remained the same as the day prior.

They stopped for lunch halfway through the day. A craggy hill provided places to sit as they ate rations in peace. Finishing her meal, Fiona noticed Alistair sitting alone, staring into the distance toward Denerim. _Are his eyes misting?_ Just as the thought occurred, he noticed her watching. Alistair sniffed; pulling his emotions back in and went to give an apple to his horse. Whatever thoughts had haunted Alistair the day before still occupied his mind, Fiona determined.

After their lunch break, the group continued for another interval of galloping. Clouds remained, hovering, heavy and damp, brushing pink noses and cheeks of the travelers. Despite the cold, the well-trained and reliable steeds gave little pushback when given adequate downtime and food.

At their next session of trotting, Fiona found Alistair riding beside her; she took a deep breath.

"It's brave of you to help the Wardens, your Majesty."

Alistair blinked, and raised both eyebrows as if he was surprised someone had spoken directly to him. His horse kept trotting, oblivious to the conversation Fiona had initiated. Alistair glanced to Fiona at his side. "Is it? I was a Warden, right? Some of this is my responsibility."

 _Is this my responsibility, too?_ She had not considered the question.

"If you see it that way." She shrugged. "But I imagine it was difficult to leave your wife."

A sarcastic chuckle escaped him and he gave a weak grin. His cheeks turned a light shade of pink, contrasting the dark furs lining his collar. "It was an easier decision than it should have been." He took a deep breath and looked straight ahead. "At least I thought it was... But now I'm here and she's there, and…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. "Anyway, now I don't know what I'm doing, to be quite honest." He patted his horse's neck.

"We can go back." She spoke low enough so that Philippa and Hawke did not overhear and voice disapproval.

Alistair's shoulders shirked up by his ears; the youthful look was not particularly king-like. Fiona tamed her amusement.

"She can't go in my place. _One_ of us needs to be here." He met her eyes again. "I want to help."

With a moment of thought, she took another deep breath and asked, "Can I speak freely?"

Unable to hide a sheepish cringe, he replied, "Go easy on me."

"You've spent a long time away from the Wardens compared to your wife, and you have a chance to help now when she can't."

It was a partial truth, and Fiona felt selfish for saying it. A fellow former Warden cured of the taint; that was why they needed him, but she had not disclosed her history to the group. Even more selfish, and even harder to admit, she appreciated having a chance to talk with Alistair. The circumstances would not have been available if he had stayed in Denerim.

Alistair pursed his lips and leaned his head from side to side as he thought. "But she's having _my_ baby. I'm going to be a father." He snorted at himself. "I should have found a way to stay."

 _So much like Maric._ She let Alistair's words resonate, showing respect for his dilemma before she replied, "You can't be in two places at the same time. The timing is not ideal." In a less permanent way, Alistair's situation with Caoilainn was too familiar to hers with Maric.

Alistair's forehead furrowed. "Does that exist? Ideal timing?" His gaze returned to the path ahead. "Because I can't seem to find it."

"Neither have I." She laughed.

The conversation lulled. Fiona reflected on the painfully imperfect timing of many events of her life. She had come to terms with most of it, unwilling to live as a victim to conditions of her past and out of her control.

"Is anything else bothering you about this mission?" She broke the hush.

Alistair's wry chuckle echoed. "Oh, you mean besides leaving behind my pregnant wife? Well, hm..." He tapped his chin with his free hand. "I hate Nathaniel Howe, does that count?"

"Really? I hadn't noticed." She kept a straight face.

"It's complicated, you see." He sighed, using his hand to illustrate his speech. He made intermittent eye contact as he spoke. "There's bad blood, but it's with good reason. I'd probably banish him if I could get away with it. Not to mention, he's not half the Warden Commander Caoilainn or Duncan were. Oh-" Alistair stopped rambling, finally realizing that Fiona smiled at him. "You were kidding."

She gave a tiny nod. "You don't hide your dislike of him very well." Her sideways glance to Alistair found his lips tightened in a frown; his nose twitched. Fiona hummed to lighten the conversation. "It might make this mission a bit challenging."

Alistair snickered. "Considering the absence of the Warden Commander, I'd say it already has."

Hawke looked over his shoulder to the two behind him. "I hate to interrupt your engaging conversation. Are you to ready to move?"

Agreeing, Fiona and Alistair dropped their discussion and nodded to Hawke. Philippa and the Champion heeled their horses their horses to a faster gait, and Alistair and Fiona did the same for another stretch of galloping.

The pattern continued the following day, finishing the trip to Vigil's Keep. Shared shock from witnessing the progression of the Warden Madness, as Hawke had named it, on an inflicted Warden lessened; theories of solutions to the disease eventually ceased. After another long day of travel, they arrived at the gates of Vigil's Keep. Following the dirt path through the grounds, they passed soldiers' barracks and training grounds. The base had expanded significantly since the last time Alistair had visited years ago, when he was still looking for Caoilainn.

The group finally reached the main building. A few Wardens came out to greet them, taking their horses and bags. Philippa led the travel party to the main entrance, explaining her certainty Nathaniel Howe waited in the entrance. She pushed open the double doors to find a vacant foyer.

"There's a surprise." Alistair muttered, stepping into the dimly lit lobby. "No cordial greeting from the Warden Commander."

"My apologies, your Majesty." Nathaniel Howe's voice came from the top of the stairs. Dressed in a clean gambeson and slacks, his hair brushed and neatly braided, he walked down the stairway. "I had a welcome party planned, complete with a musical performance in your honor, but we weren't sure when you'd arrive so I sent them back to their rooms... I can call for them again, if you'd like."

 _Bastard's not so shy now that we're at the Keep._ Alistair snorted and returned a strained, tight-lipped smile. "There's no need."

"Is there food left in the dining hall?" Fiona cut the tension, changing the subject to something on which they would all agree. "We have an update on the progression."

"It's about the Senior Warden, Ben." Philippa turned around to face them, unhooking her cloak and draping it over her arm. "But Maker, Nathaniel, have some manners and feed us first. I am absolutely famished."

Nathaniel stared at Philippa with an arched brow, recognizing her selective use of his first name at the most inopportune time. "Fine. I'll meet you all in the dining hall in a moment with the rest of our team."

 _The rest of our team?_ Alistair frowned, unsure what the Warden Commander referred, but the man headed back upstairs without explaining. The rest of them walked the short distance to the empty dining hall. Hot food and cold tankards waited, Nathaniel Howe had taken some steps in preparation for their arrival, apparently, ordering the kitchens to stay open later.

They sat at the same table in the mess hall, Philippa and Hawke across from Alistair and Fiona. Lower ranked Wardens served them food immediately. The hot meal, flavored meat and potatoes, made for a welcome change to bland travel rations.

"Good, isn't it?" Hawke pointed his fork towards the rest of the group's plates. "Enjoy it. You can think about it while we're eating nothing but dried meats and foraged fruits for the next few months."  
Philippa smacked the back of Hawke's head. "Would you shut up for five minutes?"

"Please," Alistair mumbled agreement with Philippa as Hawke rubbed the back of his head.

Footsteps echoed, boots hitting the stone floor as Nathaniel Howe made his way to their table. Alistair's attention turned to face him.

"Don't stop eating." Nathaniel sat at a neighboring table and spoke while the rest ate. "I've had rooms prepared for everyone tonight, and supplies readied for us to head out tomorrow. Your horses are being cared for as we speak."

"Fucking shite, Nate." A loud, accented voice called from the entrance of the hallway.

Alistair rolled his eyes. Lanky strides brought the young, red-haired elf, _Nathaniel Howe's new toy_ , toward their tables. She stood beside him with her hip cocked and whined. "You didn't tell me this good-for-nothing whoreson was gonna be here." She gestured her hand to Garrett Hawke.

Grinning, the Champion of Kirkwall put down his fork, propped his elbows on the table, and laced his fingers under his chin. He eyed the woman for a moment before glancing to Nathaniel. "Ah! How could I possibly forget your dazzling and _classy_ companion, Commander?" He looked back to Hale. "No need to hide your excitement."

Glaring at Hawke, Hale scowled and muttered under her breath. "Poxy… fucking… piss for brains…"

"Enough." Nathaniel shook his head, changing the subject. "You still need to tell me what happened to Ben. He's not in his bunk and no one has seen him since yesterday."

"I've seen it before, in another Warden." Hawke flashed a charming smile and winked at Hale before returning to Nathaniel. The Warden Commander cleared his throat and frowned, but the Champion did not seem to notice. "He nearly turned into a ghoul, but he was still conscious. But in Ben's case, he seemed to be following orders."

"He wouldn't tell us who." Philippa echoed him while patting her face with a dinner napkin.

"He said _they_ didn't want the Wardens to be under a magical sleep," Fiona added. "Which gives more evidence of the involvement of something in the Fade."

After taking a sip, Hawke lowered his tankard; it clunked against the wood table. "Demons would be too simple to explain this Warden Madness. We aren't thinking big enough."

"Which is why we need to investigate the Keep," Alistair said, standing up from the table. "If you'd like to continue hashing this out again, have at it. I, for one, would like to have a decent sleep before we leave tomorrow."

The others agreed, all rising from their seats. Nathaniel Howe stood, sighing through his nose. "I suppose I will show you to your rooms."

"You can come with me, child." Philippa called to Hale. "I need your help with my books."

Scoffing, Hale gave a longing look in Nate's direction but he nudged his head for her to go with Philippa.

"You can follow me." Nathaniel gathered the guests of Vigil's Keep at one end of the dining room, leading them the opposite direction of the other two women.

Alistair stayed toward the back as Nathaniel escorted them. The Champion's small talk occupied the silence, until they came to their first stop.

A wooden door with a simple handle; Nathaniel opened it to reveal a small room with a bed and basin. "This will be yours, Fiona."

"Ladies first, I see." Hawke smiled. None answered him.

Fiona mumbled thanks, entered the bedroom, and closed the door behind her. The rest continued to the next room.

"Your majesty." Nathaniel gestured his hand toward the door without opening it.

"Thanks." Avoiding eye contact, Alistair turned the door-handle and stepped in.

Nathaniel and Hawke's steps carried them from Alistair's open doorway.

Before Alistair could close the entry, he overheard, "Do you remember the woman the Wardens were looking for in that letter I found at Weisshaupt?"

 _What are they talking about?_ Alistair held still, not wishing for creaking wood to draw their attention.

"What about it?" Nathaniel replied.

"I don't think the name is a coincidence."


	8. Responsibility

_Alistair's rough, callused hands made for a pleasant distraction to Caoilainn during the gathering. He headed the table and Caoilainn sat to his right, smiling, listening. The Arl and Arlessa of West Hill had joined them for dinner, cordially invited by their Majesties. Joking with his guests, Alistair held a fork in one hand, dangling it over his meal, and pointing it as he talked to accentuate his humor. His other hand rested on Caoilainn's lap; thick fingers, strong from years of sword wielding, laced along hers. His digits spread the webbing of her hand to accommodate him as his thumb made gentle circles against the back of her palm._

 _A comfortable vulnerability, hands that understood her past and still gave love, patient and generous rewards for her efforts at honesty. And all without shame, blatant displays of affection from the King to his Queen._

Caoilainn stood with her arms extended to both sides as the palace seamstress stretched a tape measure from her shoulder to her fingertips. She reminisced about one of her favorite features of Alistair as she stood in her private room. Nostalgia did not mend the shame she felt for the damage she caused. Despite the deepest adoration and the best intentions, Caoilainn's habitual secret keeping had broken what they had rebuilt.

"I'm just going to reach around," the seamstress mumbled, meeting her arms at Caoilainn's back and pulling the tape measure around Caoilainn's bust. The older woman took no notes, only closing her eyes each time she confirmed a number. A pin, pressed between her lips managed to stay in place even as she talked. "I'll leave this loose, of course, so I don't have to keep sewing more underclothes as you grow."

"Thank you, Elisa." Caoilainn lowered her arms as the seamstress continued measuring points at her waist and hips. She looked up and away.

"And I think I'll add lacing to the sides of your gown for the same reason." The seamstress paused, stepping back and examining Caoilainn's figure. "You can even save the dress for next time."

 _Next time._ The words reverberated in Caoilainn's ears. It was difficult to imagine having another baby before she had her first. She refrained from arguing. No one's concern but her own, the tenuous nature of Caoilainn's relationship with Alistair delayed the potential of more children. With a faint murmur of agreement, Caoilainn picked colors and textures from the fabric swatches Elisa had pulled from a wicker basket.

Caoilainn recalled the discussion with Morrigan that had brought this meeting with the seamstress about.

 _"You will take no further steps in that armor." The Witch of the Wilds called from hallway outside the armory. Caoilainn was headed toward the field to train her army the morning after Alistair left._

 _"Excuse me?" Caoilainn guffawed, glancing to her friend with a cocked eyebrow._

 _"You are not to wear that armor," Morrigan reiterated, an arm crossed over her stomach, the other gesturing to Caoilainn's outfit. "Nor will you wear those tight riding pants or weighted gambesons."_

 _"What would you have me wear, Morrigan? Mage robes?" Caoilainn took a step away. "Last time I checked you are not my mother. I need to wear protective gear while I train." She had abandoned efforts to secure her breastplate; it no longer fit. But her pauldrons and chainmail promised some level of safety._

 _The witch pointed her finger back into the armory. "Must I remind you that you are pregnant? I recommend you change, then announce your pregnancy to your staff."_

 _"That would only complicate things, and it's unneeded. " Rolling her eyes, Caoilainn gave an embittered laugh. "I don't need you to take care of me."_

 _Admitting her pregnancy to the palace seemed pre-emptive; more people would be disappointed, their excitement for naught, if she miscarried. Morrigan gave little regard to Caoilainn's reservations._

 _Morrigan matched Caoilainn's laugh with her own. "Yet that is exactly why I am here. Your inability to care for yourself, let alone the child growing inside of you proves my necessity. Should you wish to preserve the life of your baby, you would follow my suggestions."_

 _Chin lifted, shoulders squared, Caoilainn held her ground. "I've stayed here instead of going to Weisshaupt, and until Teagan arrives to help, I need to keep the palace in order. My symptoms are manageable; the baby is fine."_

 _The gentle shake of Morrigan's head paired with her subtle smirk. "You can rule from the throne, and your Lieutenant is capable of leading your army in your place." Morrigan arched her brow. "Or is unsatisfied ardor to blame for this heedless pride?"_

 _"What is that supposed to mean?" Caoilainn's forehead furrowed as she crossed her arms._

 _With a condescending chuckle, Morrigan shrugged. "Perhaps if you sleep with Lieutenant Adalyn you'll have fewer qualms around your hiatus?"_

 _Red flushed Caoilainn's cheeks as her jaw dropped. The dumbfounded Queen stared at Morrigan, speechless._  
 _  
_ _"My suggestion to inform the palace of your pregnancy is not for my own amusement, or to challenge you arbitrarily." Morrigan's tone softened. "It is for your well-being, and that of your child."_

 _Unable to argue, Caoilainn pressed her lips together and exhaled through her nose. "Fine."_

Conceding to Morrigan's suggestion, Caoilainn had announced her pregnancy the same day, explaining her authority in place of Alistair as well as the redistribution of responsibility of the royal army. She was certain the word would promptly spread outside the castle.

In a night, the entire palace turned upside down. Busy-bodied servants doted on Caoilainn, arranging fittings and new delegation of tasks to care for the pregnant Queen. The kitchen cleared out her food aversions, and stocked her preferences for meals.

With the final decisions for Caoilainn's maternity attire made, Elisa packed her items into her basket. The seamstress promised the dresses within a few weeks; loose gowns with tops that could be loosened as Caoilainn's chest and belly grew. The sample dress Elisa had brought in her basket looked heavy and burdensome to wear.

 _This is what you wanted._ She reminded herself of her ambitions. It was surreal, joyful, to have a need for such modifications to her life. Aspects her previous fantasies of motherhood had barely considered now come to life. The transparency had benefits. Relieved she no longer had to make excuses for her overactive bladder, leaving the training field repeatedly through the morning practice. The gowns would remedy the discomfort of pressure against her midsection caused by form-fitting garb.

Yet the weight in the pit of her stomach remained. Unrelated to morning sickness, worry and sadness sank her mood. Alistair's uncertainty about his love and Caoilainn's failure as a partner ignited questions of her aptitude to mother. Empty smiles responded to the well wishes she received from palace staff.

A knock at the open door interrupted her bleak thoughts. Tall and intimidating with wide-shoulders and an armored frame, Lieutenant Adalyn bowed from the doorway. "Are we still meeting to discuss the chain of command?"

Caoilainn nodded and Adalyn stepped in the room. The seamstress curtsied to the formidable soldier and brought her unhurried gaze back to Caoilainn.

"Will you have a wet nurse?" Elisa mumbled, tucking a piece of fabric over her belongings in the basket hanging from her forearm.

"What? I hadn't..." Eyes widening, Caoilainn startled at the question. Her nervous gaze darted to Adalyn before returning to Elisa. Caoilainn lowered her voice. "No... I plan to breastfeed my baby myself." She lifted her chin as she made the earnest whisper.

"Good then." Elisa didn't seem to notice Caoilainn's embarrassment or moment of clarity as she walked toward the exit, "I'll add some slits and extra fasteners to the bust for feeding. You'll only need to open them and pull down the chemise to-"

"Thank you, Elisa," Caoilainn snapped a quick reply. "I understand the process."

The seamstress shrugged with a lazy curtsy and left the room. She shut the door behind her.

Blushing, Caoilainn plopped into the seat at her desk, shaking her head. She avoided Adalyn's eyes. "I'm sorry; I didn't realize that would take as long as it did. You shouldn't have had to hear that."

"Such are the needs of the throne." Adalyn stepped to the other side of the desk and gave another respectful bow. If she had been grinning, the Lieutenant hid it well.

Caoilainn's ever-present worry recently fixated on Alistair's well-being and her pregnancy. The sudden and drastic changes in her responsibilities made matters worse. Past tension with her Lieutenant, however short-lived, increased Caoilainn's fears around the transition. Established respect between the women had built on a mutual commitment to the army. Her pregnancy would inhibit her ability to serve, and Caoilainn doubted Adalyn's respect would sustain.

Though her stature was smaller than the Lieutenant, Caoilainn knew not to let Adalyn's size intimidate her. She waved her hand to signal permission for Adalyn to sit. "It isn't easy for me to ask for help, yet I find myself in need of it constantly."

"You owe me no explanation, your Majesty." The Lieutenant seated and crossed her feet beneath the chair. Her fingers laced in her lap.

"But I do, Adalyn." Caoilainn rested her elbows on the desk, extending her clasped hands toward the Lieutenant as she leaned forward. "I'm sure some still believe there are places within the palace where my time is better spent." She referred to Adalyn's jab at Caoilainn's initial attempts to lead the royal army. "My pregnancy does not prove that on my back is one of them."

Adalyn's eyebrows raised and she shifted in her seat. "I never meant to imply-"

"Save it." A sweet tone and smile interrupted the Lieutenant. Caoilainn leaned back in her chair. "As a queen, wife, and now mother, I'm no less suitable to lead the army. I need you to be my body and voice on the field while I am needed elsewhere. We'll meet every morning downstairs."

"Of course, Commander." Adalyn's brow wrinkled in confusion as she gave a hurried nod.

Caoilainn stood and Adalyn followed. "Can I trust you to report first to none other than me? Do not assume my inability to decide. Do not report to Lord Baldric. If I am not available, you will report to Arl Teagan or King Alistair when he returns."

Lowering her head, Adalyn stated, "Your word is law. I serve only the Fereldan throne, your Majesty."

"As do I." Caoilainn's hand pressed to her belly. She looked down. Adalyn's declaration lingered, _service to the throne._ Not only did Caoilainn protect the king by training his army, she fulfilled her self-imposed duty to the Theirin bloodline; lineage continued with an heir. No matter his doubt, her fealty remained. She made a circle with her flat hand, and closed her eyes. "Long live the King."

"Maker watch over him." The Lieutenant echoed a similar sentiment, and both women stood in reverent silence.

A moment passed and Caoilainn gave Lieutenant Adalyn permission to leave. Finally alone, attendants and responsibilities sorted for the day, exhaustion caught up with her. She walked to the small bed in her room to lie down. Even though she hadn't eaten in over an hour, hunger did not provoke nausea, providing clear communication from her body that she required sleep. Caoilainn listened.

9:31 Dragon

 _'It's not likely for Wardens to have children.' Alistair had explained the challenges for Wardens procreating, difficult for a Warden with an untainted partner, and virtually impossible for two Wardens post-Joining._

 _Her symptoms matched the explanation. Regular cycles of her body slowed, eventually intermittent at best, and lacking the painful aspects they once carried. Caoilainn assumed infertility, a token sacrifice in becoming a Warden. Unattached to the concept of children, the loss of herself joined the grief over her family; she barely had time to consider the consequences. Dangers of the Blight, demands for her and Alistair as the heroes of Ferelden took precedent._

 _Alistair's love compensated for sacrifice. His presence gave warmth, unexpected humor, and comforts from lingering emotional ache. It extended to passion, night after night learning unexplored versions of themselves. Caoilainn's experiences prior to Alistair provided little advantage when activated instincts made them equals._

 _"No," she whispered to herself, walking back to the camp after fleeing to the woods to vomit one evening. "This isn't possible." Sticks cracked beneath her feet on her return. Sleep deprivation inhibited her stealth._

 _"My love, are you feeling all right?" Alistair looked up from the campfire where he stood._

 _She hummed weak agreement, avoiding his eyes. "I can't sleep."_

 _She walked next to him and he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer before they went to bed._

 _When her cycle stopped she blamed the taint, but it didn't account for her sore breasts and sporadic nausea. She hid the symptoms, unable to ask the party to pause their travels when the fate of Thedas rested in their hands. Alternating with visions of the archdemon, nightmares of her body's corruption haunted her sleep; the seedling she bore struggled to thrive within her. She didn't dare to attach to the notion of a baby._

 _But the month of discomfort culminated; a debilitating pain woke her from her sleep. She sat up, gasping._

 _Alistair turned his head on his pillow to face her without rising. He yawned. "Another bad dream?"_

 _She clenched her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut as the peak of discomfort stabbed. "Yes, that's all. Go back to bed." She realized she was bleeding._

 _"On it," he mumbled. His breathing deepened right away._

 _Rising from the bed, Caoilainn lit a candle and cleaned the evidence of her symptoms. She gathered her clean menstrual rags from the bottom of her pack. Confused and sore, she washed at a nearby creek. When she returned, she curled up by the waning campfire and waited for her companions to wake._

 _Feigned illness prevented excessive questions from her counterparts when they discussed their plans for the day._

 _"Zevran," Alistair addressed the rogue, "take Morrigan, Shale, and Sten into the forest. We still need to find the way into the ruins. Wynne and I will stay here and take care of Caoilainn."_

 _"Of course, my friend." Zevran nodded to Alistair. "It would be unwise for the Warden to travel if she is feeling under the weather, yes? I would gladly lead grumpiest of my comrades on a Wardenless mission."_

 _"Why does it get a day off?" Shale spoke up from her corner of the camp. "Forests are full of those wretched flying vermin. I'd much rather stay here."_

 _"No, Alistair," Caoilainn shook her head, looking up from the campfire, "one of us needs to be with them. Please, go for me?"_

 _Alistair's brow furrowed, observing her for a short moment before he nodded. "You're lucky this time, Shale," he grumbled to the golem before heading to his tent to put on his armor._

 _"I believe this potion will help you heal." Wynne's soothing tone sounded behind Caoilainn. The mage rested a gentle hand on Caoilainn's shoulder and passed a vial with the other. Skeptical, Caoilainn glanced at Wynne, who responded with a sad smile._

 _Hesitant, Caoilainn wrapped her fingers around the vial and drank._

 _"You should get more rest, dear." Wynne offered a hand to help Caoilainn stand up._

 _She did as Wynne suggested, unwilling to confront the woman's presumptive certainty at the risk of confessing the cause of her symptoms. She returned to her bedroll; the cramping quickly lessened and she fell asleep. When she woke, the bleeding had stopped and the pain had vanished._

 _She never told anyone the truth of what happened._

Bedclothes bunched at her feet. The twisted pillow provided uneven support for her head. Caoilainn woke from a fitful sleep, alone in her private quarters. Open windows let in the dull light of a foggy dawn.

She found her daybed less lonely than the massive bed in the royal bedroom. The simplistic masculinity of the bedroom Alistair had made his own held too many reminders of him. It smelled of him; the colors represented him. Warmth and power, his dedication resonated from the from the floorboards to the furniture; even the linens carried his personality. His clothes filled the wardrobe, and other drawers held the secrets of their intimate arrangement. Rope, silk ties, scented oils, and lingerie he ordered for her from foreign lands were tucked into wooden coffers for their eyes only.

Alistair had only left a few days prior, and Caoilainn quickly discovered the room incited worry; painful doubts of his safe return. Her office did not trigger the same fears. He had designed the room for her, understanding her preferences to tailor a safe space. Even within sanctum and solitude, restless nights still found her.

She stretched out, taking a deep breath. Morning sickness did not rush her from bed, but a mild queasiness threatened to worsen if she did not eat soon. In the dim light, she acquired comfortable clothes from a chest. An unfamiliar sensation, not needing to wear armor, but she accepted the circumstances, remembering to find gratitude in this new experience.

Her footsteps echoed in the quiet hall to the stairwell. She made her way to the kitchen. Minimal activity fluttered, staff passing through the hall, voices talking in the other rooms. Peaceful repetition, everyone knew their responsibilities; the palace operated independently.

She obtained breakfast; a fresh pastry she quickly devoured to banish the taunting sickness. Preparing for her first regular meeting with Adalyn, she headed to the armory. The overcast morning muffled light shining in the windows; candles stayed lit in the halls, creating long, flickering shadows through the walkway.

A sound from outside caught her attention; she slowed her walk to look as the great door opened. Her mouth gaped as she spotted the Teyrn of Highever standing in the doorway.

"Sis!" Fergus yelled, spotting her instantly. A shit-eating grin spread across his face.  
Stunned, unmoving, Caoilainn mumbled his name. Her brother took large steps in the hall to greet her, giving her frozen body an endearing hug.

"I hear I'm to be an uncle!" His hands pressed to the tops of her shoulders, and proudly beamed at her for a moment. Then he let go and the index finger of his hand lifted her chin. Pulling at her heartstrings, the affectionate act reminded Caoilainn of her father. "My little sister becoming a mother."

Incapable of offering more than a nod, she confirmed his inquiry. Fergus looked away, breathing in the smell of cooking food wafting through the hallway. "You should introduce me to the kitchen staff." He took a step toward the kitchen.

"What are you doing here?" Caoilainn blurted, grabbing his arm to stop him from walking.

"Isn't it obvious? I came here to help my little sister in her time of need. Alistair wrote to me. Now let go of my arm so I can ransack your kitchen."

Caoilainn released him; her hand pressed against her forehead and she glanced to the ceiling. "How does that man manage to infuriate me without even being here?" Returning her focus to Fergus, she added, "I don't _need_ any more help, Fergus. Morrigan is here."

"Excuse me?" He shook his head and snorted. "Have you done this before?"

Her eyes narrowed at him. She muttered, "no."

With a sigh, he raised his hand to her shoulder. "Morrigan has had a baby. It's true, I do not have that experience. But, if you recall, I supported Oriana while she was pregnant with Oren." His nose twitched and he inhaled. "This is more a favor for Alistair."

 _Oriana and Oren._ "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" Words failed and Caoilainn's eyes misted as she recalled her last image of her nephew and sister-in-law. Caoilainn put her hand over Fergus'. "Thank you."

A sad smile crept across his face. "I will accept your apology and gratitude only in the form of breakfast. Have you eaten?" He craned his neck in the direction of the kitchen.

"Yes." She laughed and walked with him. "But I could eat again."

Bittersweet, the unexpected presence of family both heartened and hurt. _Alistair should be here._


	9. Freedom

Blades of grass emerged from the path they followed. Earth pressed beneath horse hooves, damp from condensation. Cold humidity caused by Lake Calenhad contradicted the dry mountain air blowing from the east. Hills had lessened as they passed over Orzammar, only to return in the tree-covered foothills of the Frostbacks through their days of travel.

No further signs of the ghoulish Wardens appeared, but the lingering fear of their possibility haunted the travelers each time they came upon a passerby on the road. Concerns muttered each time someone approached, but Philippa's relief alerted them each time she did not feel the bond.

Alistair and Nathaniel kept themselves at separate ends of the travel party, avoiding the risk of any conversation. The group communicated between them, determining decisions of stopping times and locations through the leaders. But the two men agreed more than they cared to admit, making navigating through their disparateness easier for the rest.

Each morning, Nate found gratitude for the pleasant reminder of his companion. Conserving space in their saddlebags, Hale chose to forgo her own tent. She shared Nate's bedroll, a benefit to both as they endured through the lower temperatures. The added body heat lessened the burden of the cold.

They chose an inn when they passed through Crestwood two days prior. Heated rooms had provided actual beds with sheets and quilted blankets gave a comfortable reprieve. That night had long gone. Now, Nate piled on layers of sleepwear, a tunic and linen pants. Similar attire clothed the Huntress. She curled up against him on her side, and his arm wrapped around her back. Feeling her breathing change against him, he knew she had woke. Early stages of dawn gave him visibility of Hale. The sound of dragging feet and grumbles outside their tent indicated they were not the first to wake. They should be preparing to depart for another day of travel.

"Morning," his gruff tone greeted her.

She yawned, keeping her eyes closed. "Five more minutes."

"That's what you said five minutes ago." Nathaniel pulled her closer, knowing the movement would require her to wake.

She groaned, flexing the muscles of her back and stretching along his frame. Her hand rested on his stomach and she sat up, her hair messy on one side. "Fuck. It's colder here than when we camped by Lake Calenhad." The small smirk she gave suggested she enjoyed it.

"We're between the Lake and the Waking Sea. Wind's carrying cold air from the mountains, and the water makes it worse. But it's just another day and a half to Jader."

She bit her lip and looked up, recalling what she had learned about their route. "Then it's Cumberland, right? By boat?"

He nodded. "We're avoiding as much of Orlais as we can."

"It's warmer in Nevarra, innit? That's what I heard." Her mouth opened, unable to refrain from yawning loudly again.

The spectacle of the young woman brought a smile to Nate's face. "It's warmer up north than it is in Ferelden."

"It'll be good for these wankers then." She brought her head to lay on his chest, procrastinating rising, instead prolonging their time conserving warmth. Her hand journeyed up his shirt. "They can't take the cold."

"I think you are the only one among us truly immune to it." With a gentle chuckle, Nate stroked Hale's hair.

"That ain't it. There's just nothing to bitch about if you know how to stay warm." Her flirty tone accompanied her flattened palm traveling down his chest to his pants. Warm skin against skin, nimble digits snuck under his tied waistband.

Their intimacy had lessened due to exhaustion and environment. Days of riding did not stimulate desire and others overhearing them seemed inevitable with their current, mostly irritable, company. Even the notorious Warden appetite seemed nonexistent under the circumstances; at least Nate had assumed the same for Hale. Her current behavior suggested otherwise.

He caught her hand, lacing his fingers with hers, preventing it from traveling further into his underclothes, then changed the subject. "How is your reading coming?"

Annoyed, she snorted and pulled her hand away. "Well enough. It's how I found out about Nevarra."

He decided to teach Hale to read back at Skyhold, and upon her return to Vigil's Keep he had arranged her lessons. She had spent an hour each day with a Warden tutor, and evening practicing with Nate before bed. Her progress had been steady, even in the few weeks of practice, and he wondered if she had continued learning with her time away from the Keep.

"Good, I'm glad," he mumbled, a faint smile tugging the corners of his mouth. But he wasn't blind to Hale's displeasure. "Huntress-"

"Stop," she interrupted, shaking her head and leaning away from him. "It's only been five bloody days into this trip and you ain't barely touched me."

Despite her exaggeration, he didn't wish to argue. With a sigh, Nate sat up, leaning toward her. "Keep your voice down, everyone can hear us."

"So? They all know we plough; we share a fucking tent." No sense of discretion, the Huntress barked at him.

"That doesn't mean I want anyone to hear us."

"We can hear you!" Alistair's irritated voice called from somewhere outside.

Ignoring the interruption, Hale glared at Nate. "That's not it, and you bloody well know it. We could be quiet."

Nate scoffed and cocked a doubtful eyebrow. "Really? You, quiet?"

"Fuck you, Nate. Just admit you don't want to."

"What about Crestwood? Does that count for nothing?" He had given his complete attention, a heated endeavor against the wall until leading to sweat-soaked pounding on the floor. The Huntress's moans and writhing gave more than enough evidence of her enjoyment.

"For fuck's sake, you kept staring at your sodding bag and as soon as we were done you checked your map." She crossed her arms.

"I have a lot on my mind." He exhaled and looked away.

"Whatever's going on with King Arsehole, yeah?" Her lip curled, sneering at Nate. "If he's on yer mind so much, you should fuck him then."

"No thank you!" Alistair hollered again.

Hale's jab was immature, unworthy of a response. Nate only rolled his eyes, sighing.

The Huntress looked him up and down. "Don't ask me about my fucking reading or hold my hand like it's better because it's not and you know it."

"Fine, I've said it. I'm sore from riding, the cold, I'm concerned about the Wardens," he lowered his voice, "the particular company we're in is not my favorite. Sleeping with you is not high on my list of priorities."

Her watery eyes narrowed at him and her teeth clenched. She withheld a retort.

"You wanted me to be honest." His hand opened between them, a subtle movement offering an apology and excuse.

"Well, fuck your honesty!" She scoffed, and wiped the tears from her eyes with the edge of her hand, then reached for her boots. "Just lemme know when we can pack the tent."

He grabbed her arm, and gave a light tug for her to look at him. Piercing green glared up at him, hurt, marked by smudged make-up caked under her lower lashes, worsened by stray tears. Nathaniel wrinkled his forehead; her response confused him.

"Hale, it doesn't mean I love you any less. I need some time to get my head straight." He extended a hand to her cheek. She blinked, and blinked again, then leaned her head into his palm. Gentle, his thumb wiped a pooled tear from her eye.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Hale fell into his arms, her forehead resting on his chest. Pine trees and flowers, the smell of her hair filled his nose. He closed his eyes in appreciation of her. Slender bodied and strong, one of her shoulders sat higher in this position, her drawing arm, just like his. A small detail of the woman he had come to love, he valued the imperfections.

The Huntress's body gave a timid shake, and another. Then she inhaled and gathered herself, wiping any remaining tears from her cheeks. She looked at him; the young woman's proud chin lifted.

 _Now is as good a time as any._ Despite the argument, they were in communication. He had wanted to ask her this since she came back to him. The right time had seemed non-existent, always interrupted by their duties as Wardens and responsibilities of the Keep. Although he heard the other's packing the camp outside their tent, Nate decided to take advantage of this opportunity.

"Hale, I'd like to ask you something." Clearing his throat, his eyes searched her features. His stomach knotted.

She raised an eyebrow, skeptical of him. "S'this about then?"

Nate swallowed. "You know I have feelings for you I share with no one else. Not even Caoilainn."

Blushing, the Huntress covered her embarrassment with a sarcastic chuckle. "Oh, shut it. What's the point?" Her eyes filled with curiosity and confusion.

His hands rested on her shoulders; he dipped his forehead toward hers. "I want to know if you would say the same?"

Shifting eyes tracked through inner thoughts, Hale considered her reply before speaking. "Well, yeah, Nate. Told you I love you. Never been like this with no one else."

"I know." Nodding, Nathaniel gave a mild smirk, appreciating their likeness. "I can relate... It's why I want you by my side, Hale."

"I'm here aren't I?" An amused giggle escaped her; she shook her head. "Left my tent at the Keep and everything."

Mouth opening to argue, then quickly shutting, Nate's lips pressed together. He struggled to find words. "I mean exclusively."

Silence followed, she took a moment to think about his words.

"Sorry, mate. I dunno what that means." A careless shrug followed the Huntress's reply.

 _Literally or figuratively?_ He questioned if she hadn't heard the word before or if she lacked the capacity to comprehend it. Knowing the wild woman, either option was possible.

A deep breath prepared him for another attempt, awkward delivery of a request for something representing monogamy with Hale was not going as smooth as he had expected, and he hadn't expected it to go well.

"Hale," he let go of her shoulders and lowered his hands to his lap. "I want to be with no one else but you." He saw her squinting as she waited for him to continue. "It could be the same for you."

"Like married blokes?"

"Yes, similar." Nate's weary nod confirmed her correlation. "They are loyal to one another."

"So you wanna marry me?"

 _Shit._ Her question sparked an involuntary cough. Nate raised his hand to cover his mouth. "Oh, well, I don't- "

"'Cause that shite ain't for me." She shook her head and made a cynical laugh. "Nope. Never."

He looked at the ground, and grumbled aloud, "Me either." Returning his gaze to Hale, he added, "But that's not what I meant."

"Well, I don't fucking get it, mate." After a roll of her eyes and she shifted to stand.

"I don't want you to sleep with Damia when she wakes up, or anyone else." The words fell from his mouth, hurried and blunt. He regretted it immediately, unsure how she'd take anything that resembled a limitation on her freedom. _Shit._

A blank stare faced him, unreactive, startled. She was thinking. He wasn't prepared for her answer to be no.

"Think about it, please." He stroked her hair, but she pulled away.

"Right, yeah." She stood up and grabbed her clothes to change. "I'll think about it."

They finished dressing without talking. He questioned her commitment, still unsure if he had made the right choice. Youth and the freedoms that associated did not influence his decisions, but the deep seed of guilt for his age over Hale returned. Was she too young to make this decision? Was it unfair of him to ask?

The vibrant and lively energy of this particular woman had captivated him, drawn from within a reaction he thought impossible. It was uncontrollable with Hale, requiring him to break boundaries and change rules he had long since placed for himself. Love created a challenge for him to grow into a better human being.

When they left their tent, and expectant group faced them. Soggy earth, moist from the land they camped on caked mud on the bottom of their boots. As carefully as they could, they packed the camp. None confronted Nate's delay or mentioned the conversation he was sure they overheard.

The elven woman had sparked conversation with Alistair on more than one occasion, and he couldn't help but wonder _why?_ He had berated her for the betrayal at Redcliffe, his words harsh and warranted. Yet she had since remained kind in their limited interactions, understanding of his decision to ban her. She did not beg for mercy or spew shallow apologies. Fiona had owned her mistake and accepted his judgment. Lifting her banishment upon Caoilainn's successful revival, in addition to contributing to his cure seemed fair. The woman had proven her loyalty through actions rather than words.

Remembering the boiling rage when he had discovered his mercy had come back to bite him, he still needed answers. As he learned more about Fiona, experiencing more of the underlying sadness he had detected at Skyhold, he realized more questions emerged.

"So what actually happened in Redcliffe?" Alistair asked Fiona over dinner.

The steady burn of the campfire heated a pot that held the evenings' provisions, an improvised stew of rabbit and potatoes. The food filled their bowls, and most ate in silence, appreciating the warmth of the soup in contradiction to the cold. In their ongoing conversation, Alistair learned more about Fiona; her opinion on the politics in Orlais, mage rights, and her favorite place in Ferelden- the woods near a thaig East of Orzammar. A much more interesting woman than he had previously gathered, she had a clever and blunt sense of humor that he appreciated. A few of her phrases reminded him of things he had heard Duncan say.

Regardless of her personable nature, and the sound and comforting advice she continued to offer him, he couldn't shake his suspicion. The dichotomy confused him.

"It was brainwashing. Alexius was experimenting with time and I became part of it. I trusted him when I shouldn't have and the Redcliffe Chantry suffered."

"I see," Alistair said, leaning back at his seat, a log near the campfire. "It was a blow to my ego more than anything, but I'm sorry for the way I spoke to you."

"I deserved it." She bunched her lips in remorse. "But my mind wasn't all there. I was trapped in a nightmare. I am in debt to the Inquisitor for freeing me from it."

"Yes, the Inquisitor." Alistair responded skeptically, weighing his experience with the woman. "I have to say I'm not particularly fond of her."

"Many aren't," Fiona shrugged, "particularly in Ferelden. Orlais has repaid the Inquisition with power."

"I'm not a fan of that either."

"It will last until Orlais decides it no longer needs the Inquisition's favor. Now that the breach is closed, I imagine the ally is more to make a statement to neighboring countries." She stirred her stew with her wooden spoon.

"What an Orlesian thing to do." He mumbled, aware that the woman he spoke with was Orlesian herself. He changed the subject, "What did you do before you were Grand Enchanter?"

A memory of a previous conversation with Fiona had followed him back to Denerim, hidden in the back of his mind until these new conversations made it resurface.

 _She stood in the doorway, offering a few final words before departing. 'You're the king Ferelden needed. Your father would be proud.' A quick nod and she left the room, leaving him in shock to consider the statement. But Caoilainn's care took priority, he let the thought go to more urgent matters._

Fiona paused, a delay in answering his question. "Just another Circle Mage who desired change."

 _King Maric wouldn't have visited an Orlesian Circle._ That much was clear. His suspicion around Fiona rose. _She's hiding something._ He assumed the connection to whatever he overheard Nathaniel and Hawke discussing the night at Vigil's Keep.

"Always?" He eyed her for a reaction.

"Not always." She looked him in the eye for a brief moment, and he saw remorse, sorrow. Then she sighed with amusement and it was gone. "But sometimes history is best left in the past."

The open, warm kindness he felt from Fiona before seemed to vanish. All invitation for dialogue had ended. Small talk or silence his only remaining options, he chose the latter, taking the opportunity as more time to think.

It had almost been a week with this new group of people, smaller than the group of scouts Hale had called her comrades. Preoccupied with research, Philippa spent more time talking to Hawke and Fiona than recalling the antics of the scouting group's mission to the Arbor Wilds. When the King of Ferelden and Fiona were not engaged in conversation, he sulked by himself and she discussed magic with the other mages.

Hale had not felt so out of place since her early days with the Wardens. Obviously unwelcome, this group either ignored her completely or passed judgmental stares. Everyone was Nate's age or older, and no one seemed to have any inclination for fun. Her usual forms of bonding with her cohort, crude jokes and drinking games did not appeal to most of the travel party, and Garrett Hawke annoyed the shite out of her.

Her only companion was distracted. Nate's insecurities about leading the group, saving the Wardens, and dealing with Alistair kept his mind preoccupied. No matter how well she understood him and his tendency to obsess over his work, it didn't aid her loneliness. Even physical connection, a reliable means of communication when outside circumstances kept them distant, was unavailable.

The day had dragged and Hale kept her distance from Nate, needing the silence to let her think. In truth, his request was minor. Nate met her needs, and she desired little aside from her time with him. Feeling loved, cared for, and valued as more than an easy smash or a drinking pal, her feelings for Nate were unique. But the cherished freedom to do what she wanted had defined her life.

The level of commitment Nate requested was new and terrifying. It would limit her. Granted, when she found no desire when she considered being with anyone else, even Damia. With Nate she found respect in spite of her age, shown through morning conversations, the rare revelations of his insecurities when he admitted his struggles, and safety; falling asleep at his side each night, feeling understood in a way she had assumed impossible. The fulfillment didn't prevent her reservation around commitment. Sex was secondary; she didn't belong to anyone.

He should have known this request would be difficult for her. This would limit her even if given the choice she would choose him anyway.

There was no time to dwell. Saltwater permeated the air as they neared the docks at Jader. But nightfall had beckoned another night of camping. It was unsafe to travel at night, even though Jader would have at least one decent inn. Campfire built, dinner made and eaten, the party divided.

Hale sat on a log by the fire. She quietly patted her drum, uninterested in dealing with the rest of the group bitching at her. Nate fixated on a journal of notes, and Hale was torn. She appreciated the space he gave and wanted more, for him to put away his work, to pretend they hadn't had the conversation that morning. Wishful thinking changed nothing. She noticed Alistair's absence, likely sulking in his tent. An earlier conversation he had with Fiona seemed to had come to an abrupt end. Now Fiona and Philippa talked while they prepared potions.

Hawke sat beside Hale, knees wide, his forearms resting on his upper legs. He gestured a hand toward her drum.

"I'd make a joke about your banging capabilities but that would be woefully inappropriate."

She kept thrumming her fingers against the stretched leather and gave a wry chuckle. "Yeah, and I'd have to punch yer ugly fucking face and I don't wanna get my hand dirty."

"There's nothing wrong with dirty." Hawke laughed and reached for something to his side.

Hale scoffed, guarding herself to this forward fellow. "What d'you want?"

"A laugh? Something less doomy than this fatalistic crew. Would you care for a drink?" He lifted the bottle of wine toward her.

She squinted at the bottle, then at Hawke. "Aye, it'll help me deal with you. Gimme that."

Hawke extended the wine toward her and Hale took it, bringing the bottle directly to her lips. Her head tilted back, and she took a few long gulps from the bottle. With a satisfied exhale, she passed it back to him.

He took a sip and scrunched his face as he swallowed. "So, something's been on my mind."

Hale groaned. "Here we go."

"Hear me out." He chuckled, extending a hand to delay her dismissal. "I worked with Alanna for a little while and I'm not following how one of her kin ended up as a Grey Warden… and with that accent, for that matter?"

"That ain't none of yer sodding business, that's how." An intimidating display, her tongue covered her front teeth; she lifted her chin and held out her hand for the bottle.

"Feisty... a little frightening." He passed the wine her way. "I like it."

Unable to withhold laughter, she rolled her eyes. "Fuck off." Hale took a significant swig and gave him back the wine. "Thanks, mate." She smirked and stood up.

"No more? You're going to leave me to drink all this wine by myself?" He held up the bottle, hearing the bottom contents slosh as he did. "Oh." The bottle only held another mouthful of liquid.

She winked. "Now I'm warm enough to go for a hunt." Long legs stepped over his, Hale took her drum to Nate's tent and grabbed her bow in its place.


	10. Jader

The Next Day

 _*My love,* (strike)_

 _Caoilainn,_

 _*I'm at a loss.* (strike)_ _Words cannot describe..._

The quill scratched on parchment, crossing out and rewriting sentences, unable to catch the correct phrasing. Silent reflection had left Alistair with a message too complicated to capture with words; their limitation diluted the essence of his meaning. He retired from the struggle, just as he had the last three times he had tried to write her. The words would not appear, and the quill and parchment failed him. He packed the vellum away to try again later.

The afternoon sun blared from the west as they arrived in Jader and secured their horses at a stable on the outskirts. Jader looked as Alistair expected, a busy port. Muddied roads, buildings with pointed arches divided by columns, refined Orlesian architecture did not impress him. Worn white buildings with chipped gold paint suggested the city no longer received assistance from its capital. Large statues of Orlesian leaders crumbled to ruin. But the city seemed to flourish despite its neglect from Orlais.

A melting-pot of cultures, styles of dress mirrored the nearby countries. Many mabari followed their owners, similar to any Fereldan city; Nevarran artists sold their art street side among Marcher vendors serving cuisine from that region.

Further signs of Fereldan influence increased closer to the water. Streets and less extravagant buildings resembled Denerim or Amaranthine. Orlais had occupied and held Jader during Ferelden's struggle for independence. King Maric had never tried to reclaim the port as Amaranthine had already proven to be a more suitable location for exporting major Fereldan goods and receiving trade from the Free Marches and Nevarra.

Avoiding recognition from Fereldan citizens and a longer time at sea, Alistair had chosen this port over Amaranthine. Unlike other cities in Orlais, Jader maintained lax rules on travel. Economically supported by its busy commerce, the city thrived on its diversity. Restricting travel would derail the structure and income. With less attention paid to the origins of visitors, it would be easy for the King of Ferelden and the Warden Commander of the Fereldan Grey Wardens to board a transport ship to the northern country.

Despite Alistair's travels through Ferelden, and his recent excursion through Orlais, he had never visited this busy port.

Countless rows of wooden docks stretched along the entire coast. Once past the city line, Alistair observed more ships than he could count. Designated sections for those traveling cargo differentiated from passenger vessels. Marquee signs with removable numbers updated ships schedules as they arrived and departed. The scent of saltwater wafted through the air and hungry pelicans dived for their catch in the water; the sound of squawking gulls echoed through the yells of sailors. A few passersby gave the party confused stares and chose to walk to the other street.

Alistair took that as an added incentive for them to leave the city as soon as possible.

He pointed to one of the marquees at the end of one of the docks. "It looks like transport ships are on the central docks." The group collectively stopped. When he turned to look at them, he saw their eyes enlarge as they also gaped at the complicated trade city.

The first to rein in his distraction, Nathaniel Howe replied in a sarcastic grumble, "Yes, because jumping on the next boat out of here is a foolproof plan." He shook his head and looked at the rest of the party. "We need to ask around. The inns, bars, locals… someone might know something of the other Wardens."

Heartbeat speeding, Alistair sneered and spoke up before anyone else could answer. "Right then. Will that be before or after we raise a flag that says 'suspicious'?"

Standing between them, Hawke patted his hands on both men's shoulders. "I only know most of what's going on between you two, but I say you settle it over a drink. My vote is we find the nearest bar and wait for the information to find us."

Hawke's choice of words _'I only know most of what's going on between you two,'_ disturbed Alistair, but he didn't wish to find out what Hawke meant.

"I second that one," Hale echoed, crossing her arms and nodding toward Hawke.

Eyes narrowed, visibly displeased with his bedmate's agreement with the Champion, Nathaniel Howe grimaced in Hawke's direction, but the sorceress Philippa replied, "We have other priorities than getting drunk, imbecile. Nathaniel is right. We should look for evidence first and leave in the morning."

Alistair gave an impatient exhale. "Fine. Shall we split up then?" He raised a critical eyebrow at Nathaniel. "We'll reconvene here in an hour."

A silent confirmation of Alistair's plan, Nathaniel squeezed his lips and gave a nod.

"Fiona?" Not waiting for petty squabbles of who would travel together, Alistair's gaze moved to the woman. Silent since they arrived, she only bowed her head and walked his direction.

The remaining group divided. Nathaniel and Hale ventured the docks; Hawke and a displeased Philippa walked to examine the inland section of the city. It left Alistair and Fiona to explore the merchants and activity dividing the two sections.

Small children weaved between Alistair and Fiona as they walked along the major street bordering the docks crowded with vendors and shoppers.

 _Disrespectful son of a bitch._ Heart still racing, angry thoughts circulated through Alistair's mind about Nathaniel Howe even as he gained distance from the man. The blatant disgust for Alistair's very presence made Alistair's skin crawl. He clenched his fist as he walked.

As if Fiona heard them, she interrupted his thoughts. "You don't have to give him power over you."

"What are you talking about? I don't give him _power_ over me," Alistair snapped his reply, quickly turning his head to face Fiona. Her words sank in as he spoke, "...on purpose." She only raised her eyebrows in polite agreement with his admission. Alistair changed the subject back to her, "Why speak up now?"

With a matter-of-fact shrug, she returned her eyes ahead of her. "You both had good points and I can see your perspectives, even if you cannot."

"What is this witchcraft?" Alistair's brow wrinkled and he glanced at her. Fiona kept her gaze forward, but he noticed her smiling.

"Only a gift of age." She pointed to a statue of a mabari. "Did you know that Ferelden reoccupied Jader for a brief period during the rebellion?"

"I do now."

The pair walked through the crowded street, standing close enough together that they were not divided by locals, and so they could hear each other. Fiona explained the Fereldan influence to the harbor's construction and the town's independence from Orlais.

Listening, Alistair appreciated the distraction from his flawed thinking, fixating on Nathaniel's abhorrent behavior. It seemed Fiona knew the history lesson served a purpose. As they walked, their gazes held on the street, searching for anything unusual to call their attention.

"Would you like to know more?" She peered at something in the distance and nodded for them to walk that direction.

"There's not much else to do." With a careful step to a different walkway, Alistair headed toward a busy shopping square.

"During the Blight, Jader was overwhelmed with Fereldans from western villages along the mountains trying to leave for Kirkwall." She frowned. "The darkspawn seemed to have avoided Jader, the Orzammar tunnels leading them further into Ferelden. The Duke at the time feared for the town, and decided to prohibit Fereldan refugees from entering the city during the disaster. They forced them to Amaranthine."

"But that's a week away." Alistair's lip curled in displeasure. "Even slower on foot."

"From what I understand, many did not survive."

"I shouldn't be so surprised." Snorting, Alistair shook his head in disbelief. "Orlais certainly hasn't matured much, even now."

"Have you?" She asked with a soft voice, a gentle confrontation.

"Ouch." Mocking pain, Alistair's hand covered his chest. He made a mental note to revisit the plan to make things difficult for Orlais when he got back to Denerim. Something in the shopping square caught his eye. "But what's this?"

A news board secured in the ground near a crowded tavern called Alistair's attention. He neared it, scanning through copious handwritten flyers offering business and requesting help. Parchment wrinkled from time and weather, ink bled from rain. As Alistair read the flyers, finding nothing useful until he located one small scrap of paper in a corner.

 _Caution for ghouls. Don't trust soldiers in blue and silver. Don't follow strange cries at night._

"There's an address here," Alistair mumbled, pulling the note from the board.

Untouched, the note sat alone on the board, given space from the other notes of parchment. Nothing written over it, no other notes gave more information, agreement or disdain.

"I saw this street a few roads ago." With a glance toward the afternoon sky, Fiona added, "We have time."

They retraced their steps through the crowded street, hurrying between shopping townspeople. At the correct side road, they turned. Mostly deserted, a few residents walked along with their heads down, avoiding eye contact. Unremarkable buildings filled with apartments lined both sides of the backstreet. House numbers had faded, neglected like the rest of the city, it made their destination difficult to find. They needed help.

Alistair's fears of others discovering him as the King of Ferelden kept him frozen. He held his breath as Fiona asked a stranger for assistance. Stopping an individual who crossed the street, she made a short question in Orlesian. The person's face scrunched, then looked at him, but a moment later they pointed to a building a few doors down from where they stood. _That's a good sign._ Alistair kept his skepticism to himself. A moment later, Fiona and Alistair reached the home in question.

A knock, and then another. The pair stood on the steps of the small apartment, waiting for someone to answer. There was nothing unique or interesting about the building, nothing to assume the person who lived here would have any special insight about their quest.

After a moment, the door creaked open to an empty doorway. Alistair passed a glance at Fiona, she shirked her shoulder and the two looked into the vacant entry.

"Hello?" Alistair's head crooked in the doorway, looking left and right for anyone hiding inside. With no sign of a resident, he stepped inside and Fiona followed.

The house seemed vacant. Clean, but unfurnished, an empty lower floor showed nothing, no one. Bare wooden floors groaned with each step, bringing them to a stairwell to the upper story. Cautious, they climbed.

Alistair's head gained view of the floor as he neared the top of the stairs, spotting a shadow across the length of the room. His heart pounded; eyes narrowing, he reached for his sword.

"You're late." A woman's voice announced her presence through an Orlesian lilt.

Brow furrowing, Alistair tilted his head. _That voice is familiar._ She came into sight. The hooded woman stood at the far end of the room, her arms crossed. Leather-clad, she wore a purple shawl over red hair; it shadowed her eyes.

"Leliana?" With breathy chuckle, Alistair walked toward her. "What are you doing here?"

"The Inquisition has eyes everywhere." Leliana lifted her head, and her eyes came into sight. "I knew you'd be here."

"That's not creepy at all!" Alistair laughed louder, smiling to see his old comrade in clearer sight. "But _why_ are you here?"

"To help you." She looked at her nails then back to him. "The other Wardens made quite an impression on Jader when they passed through."

"We saw the sign." Speaking up, Fiona walked up behind Alistair. She stood a few steps away from both of them. "So you didn't leave it?"

"It wasn't mine." Leliana shook her head and frowned. "It's how I found the house too. It's been deserted since I got here."  
"Any idea who left it then?" Careful steps took Alistair to the window near Leliana. He looked out over the street they just came from.

She answered with a soft, denoting grunt. "I'm curious of that myself. None will explain further. I suspect few aside from whoever put up the sign saw what happened, other than the Wardens looking unwell. I've heard a few rumors of a ghoul and nothing else substantial."

Alistair inhaled, his hand rose to his forehead. He leaned against the wall beside the window.

Fiona's brow creased, she addressed Leliana. "We need to get to Weisshaupt to resolve this before anyone else gets hurt. A boat to Cumberland is the fastest way."

"I'm aware," Leliana nodded to Fiona and then addressed Alistair. "I can't help you board a ship myself, but I know who can. You'll need to bring the rest of your group."

"We're supposed to be meeting outside the docks…" Alistair looked out the window again to assess the time, "right about now."

"We should get along then, shouldn't we?" Leliana chuckled lightly and gestured her hand, ushering them both toward the stairs. She smiled at Alistair as he passed, "Congratulations about Caoilainn, by the way."

"Creepy, Leliana. Just creepy." Alistair rolled his eyes, talking to Leliana as she followed behind him.

Walking briskly back toward the docks, Alistair and Fiona led their new guest to the rest of the group. Crashing sounds of the sea's waves seemed louder as evening approached, encouraging Alistair's rush to return to the meeting place. The three took careful steps over the cobbled road.

On the main street dividing the city from the docks, Nathaniel and Hale stood waiting. Hale grimaced in the other direction from Nathaniel. Arms crossed and glaring, Nathaniel spotted Alistair and Fiona first.

"You're late." Nathaniel Howe muttered, his gruff tone carrying notes of derision.

Alistair's mouth pulled into a tight-lipped smile. "Seems to be a habit of mine. I'm not the only one, apparently." Philippa and Hawke had not returned either.

Leliana stepped from behind Alistair, she narrowed her eyes at Nathaniel. "It would be wise for you to dress in plainclothes, Commander. You all need to come with me."

"Sister Nightingale." Neutral, unmoved by her words, Nathaniel acknowledged Leliana with a raised brow. Alistair assumed the two had met at Skyhold. "We're waiting for two more. Where are we going?"

"To see a connection," Leliana clasped her hands in front of her, "Someone who will help you cross the Waking Sea. Many here are cautious since the Wardens passed before you."

Loud shuffling of feet and displeased whining preceded a posh voice calling from behind them, "Someone remove this idiot from my charge." One hand on her hip and the other pulled the lip of Hawke's breastplate toward the group. She let go with effort, throwing him into their circle. "He nearly ruined the entire mission."

"Ruin is such a strong word." Hawke's pulled up his gloves and fixed his belt with his freedom from Philippa's grasp. "I was only following a lead."

"Into someone's home!" Pointing her finger from the direction they came, Philippa yelled at Hawke. "After you stole goods from a vendor!"

"Borrowed," he clarified, waving his finger to correct her. "I was going to give it back. Maybe." He pulled an item from his pouch and extended his open palm.

A small blood-filled vial on a leather strap rested in his hand. Hawke added, "It looks like some Wardens have been here and lost something."

Gasping, Philippa reached toward the bottle. "A Warden wouldn't misplace that. In the wrong hands, that is a very dangerous blood."

Smirking with pride, Hawke handed it over. Alistair believed her, but not wishing to ask or know the extent of blood magic, he didn't inquire further.

"This is more reason to hurry to Weisshaupt." Leliana's annoyed lilt disrupted their panic. "I've questioned the town, there's nothing left to find here. If you follow me, my connection is waiting. We can arrange your passage as soon as possible."

The three mages' eyes moved from Leliana to Alistair and Nathaniel, waiting for their agreement to follow the woman. Hale only glared the other direction, just as she had been since Alistair returned. Alistair nodded, suggesting they comply with Leliana's recommendation; Nathaniel's lips bunched and he tilted his head forward, his hand suggesting they all follow her.

Rounding the group, Leliana checked the path ahead for any onlookers. Satisfied with the circumstances, she took a step toward the central street, heading away from the docks. The rest followed, Nathaniel and Alistair at the back of the line.

Alistair grinned, staring straight ahead; as he walked, he addressed Nathaniel, "So, I found Leliana and she is helping us get to Cumberland; Garrett Hawke found a clue about the Wardens. What have you brought to the table, Commander?"

The idea to delay departure in favor of searching Jader had been Nathaniel's idea. In spite of loathing the man, Alistair could not resist pointing out the discrepancy to the Commander.

"We didn't find anything of use," Nathaniel grumbled, eyes fixed forward. The young woman walked in front of him, not acknowledging the rest of the party.

"The lovers' quarrel continues, I see." Alistair lowered his tone and his head cocked to the side. Not attempting to filter his bitterness, he glanced at Nathaniel. "You know, I find it pleasantly ironic you've chosen a partner with commitment issues. Regardless, you know you really shouldn't let it get in the way of your work."

Nathaniel looked up, exhaling through his nose, and then glanced at Alistair. He raised an eyebrow. "Considering your fascination with my dealings with Hale, I'd say you should do the same."

Alistair chuckled, gritting his teeth. He wished to throw insults, rationalizing his commentary on Nathaniel's relationship as retribution for the damage caused to Alistair's marriage. But the words stopped short of leaving his mouth.

"We're here." In front of a higher-level inn near the entrance to the city, Leliana turned on her heels to face them. "My contact is expecting all of you." Her eyes lingered on Hale; the young elf squinted in response. She inhaled and held her breath.

Leliana pushed open the door to an upscale inn, more like a fine dining hall. Well-occupied and clean, the tavern's tables were dressed; guests enjoyed their dinner. Unlike the nicest taverns or bars Alistair had visited in his travels, the patrons here drank wine from shaped glasses rather than tankards. The smell of seasoned meat wafted from the kitchens to the doorway. Alistair's stomach grumbled.

Not stopping for them to eat, or even grasp a better look at what the tavern served, Leliana corralled them to a hallway. Alistair looked over his shoulder longingly. Hunger overrode the nervous curiosity about their destination.

Determined steps took Leliana to a door toward the end of the hallway. She gave a single knock and then entered, escorting the six travelers into the room before her. Last in line, Alistair did not see the person they were meeting before he heard Hale curse.

"Fuck all!" She turned around, parting the group, and pushing past Alistair to leave the way she came. "Not having it."

Furnished with a large bed, clothed with fine linens, a counter with a sink basin lined one wall, and a large wooden desk occupied a corner. A blonde elven woman leaned against the back of the desk.

" _Asa'var'lin,"_ an apologetic voice called after Hale. " _Abelas britha sul'min te'iselen."_

Alistair didn't understand the words, but with a vague understanding of the conflict between the Inquisitor and her cousin, he knew enough to recognize the young woman was displeased with the surprise. Despite her volatile nature, Alistair found an odd empathy with Hale.

"Stop!" Voice rising, Hale swung around at the door, but she didn't leave. She leaned against it and crossed her arms. "Leave me be!" Alistair assumed the young woman was smart enough not to leave on her own after hearing information about the Wardens ill-welcome in Jader.

"I just wanted to see you safe." Notes of disappointed exhaustion rang through Alanna's tone. She addressed the entire room. "I'm here to help all of you."

When the Inquisitor's eyes landed on Alistair, she squinted. Recognizing the mutual displeasure, Alistair held his tongue. _Happy to see you too._ Her gaze traveled on to others in the room.

"Fiona," Alanna bowed her head. "I wondered where you'd gone when you left Skyhold. The well-being of the Wardens seems to concern us all."

Fiona responded with a reticent nod. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Inquisitor."

Alistair evaluated Fiona's frown and rigid stance. _She looks uncomfortable._

"Warden-Commander," Alanna said, dipping her head to Nathaniel, "I'd wondered if you received my last letter, but I assume it may have arrived after you departed Vigil's Keep."

 _I see she trusts the Fereldan Wardens again._ Alistair determined the tension between the Inquisition and the Wardens vanished with the help of Nathaniel's ass kissing.

"What?" Hale barked loudly from the back of the room.

Nathaniel's mouth opened and he glanced from Alanna to Hale. Wordless for what to say to the young woman, he sighed and faced Alanna again. "I saw it, Inquisitor. I had nothing else to add at the time-"

A pronounced scoff sounded from Hale. Alistair turned to watch the woman roll her eyes and leave. The room vibrated as the door slammed shut behind her.

With another sigh, this one more defeated than the last, Nathaniel Howe added, "I had no other information about the Wardens, but since we left we have seen what happens to sick Wardens not put into a dreamless sleep."

Philippa interrupted the discussion with her own concern. "The dear girl shouldn't be alone. She is likely to do something stupid. I will find her. You can thank me later, Nathaniel." Philippa's quick steps took her to the door, not waiting for anyone's approval of her decision to leave.

"I'll join them," Fiona hurried after Philippa. Both women left, leaving Alistair with Nathaniel, Hawke, and the Inquisitor. Sister Nightingale stood quietly in the corner with her hands clasped behind her.

Eyebrows lifted, surprised, Alanna looked at the three men. "Well, that was- You know, never mind. Continue, Commander. Did any of you have any more to add?"

Hawke spoke up, explaining the group's hypotheses around the magic in question and reason they needed to reach Weisshaupt. The Inquisitor voiced understanding of their urgency. Conflict amongst the Grey Wardens remained irresolvable, even after the deaths of the corrupted Wardens. Secrets divided the Order, a power struggle the group assessed related to the illness, and the break in the bond. Alanna stated her investment in the Grey Wardens well-being after the aid they provided to the Inquisition.

Decisions already made, Alanna and Leliana explained the plan they derived for the following morning. The group members and their horses would board a cargo boat with Alanna's assistance, vouching for the party members, including the three Wardens among their party.

After the final details were covered, the hungry party ventured back to the dining hall. Philippa, Fiona, and Hale sat at a table, already started on their dinner. The rest joined, eating, drinking, and avoiding further discussion of the feats the next day. Most kept to themselves, the elf girl and Nathaniel ignoring each other, the mage women too tired to engage. Hawke's jovial nature occupied the silence of the other members until they finished their meals and headed to rooms Alanna had already reserved.

Grateful for the space, but exhausted from the day's events, Alistair shut the door behind him and sighed. Privacy, something he had gone without since Crestwood but needed desperately, seemed surreal.

The room was simple. Nicer than the previous inn, the bed was covered by a down-stuffed blanket and a surplus of pillows. It beckoned to him; tired eyes and mind made the notion of sleep glorious. But a desk on the other wall held a lit lone candle, an inkwell, quill pens, and blank parchment, all reminding Alistair of the unfinished letter to Caoilainn folded in his pack.

He opened his bag with aching digits, sore from grasping reigns for the last week, and pulled out the letter. He sat down. Quill nib to ink to parchment, he readied to write but sounds from the next room over disturbed him. A shrill voice yelled indistinct sentences, the only parts of which Alistair could understand were expletives.

Alistair did not tame the gratified smile from spreading on his face. _Sweet justice._ Nathaniel Howe's continued challenges with his partner gave Alistair an odd satisfaction. He chuckled to himself then returned to the letter.

Time passed easily, and for once words flowed. Free from his own criticism he wrote with honesty, continuing to be entertained by the yelling next door. Still unable to make out the words of the dispute, he noticed when Nathaniel's voice joined Hale's, the loudest tone he had ever heard of the man. It surprised Alistair, and he frowned, worried for the young woman. But the yelling ceased with a thud against the wall, startling him. Concerned for the need to check on them, Alistair listened harder and instantly wished he had never heard them at all. The woman made a discrete sound of pleasure, a moan that resonated through the wall. Another followed soon after, echoed by another thud, and soon followed by more. As they continued, Alistair hurried his signature, settling for only his first initial and stood up.

"Nope," he said to himself, folding the letter and sealing it with candle wax. "I can sleep later."

He left the room, purposefully slamming the door behind him before wandering back to the lobby area to have the letter sent to Denerim.

* * *

*Writer's note* The strikethrough functionon FFN doesn't seem to work so I had to improvise with the letter in the beginning. I don't know if I have any readers left on here anyway, but in case you read this and want to know why I did it that way.

Hey all- What do you think of this plot so far? I am dying to know. I've gotten zero feedback on the third fic and I can't tell if people aren't that into it? I *think* there's still a few readers?


	11. Sins and Sorrows

_19, Firstfall 9:42_

 _*My love,* (Strike)_

 _Caoilainn,_

 _*I'm at a loss.* (Strike)_ _Words cannot describe this level of frustration. My mind keeps going back to you. Are you doing well? Has the sickness passed? Has Fergus arrived yet? Sorry, not sorry about that._

 _I'm writing from Jader, but don't bother with a reply. We are leaving for Cumberland tomorrow. The letter would never reach me. Another reason why I should be there with you. Not having any answers to these questions is agonizing. I'm kicking myself for leaving, but I didn't have a choice. Yet again. It seems a recurrent theme for me._

 _It's so difficult to be so far from you again. Worse this time, even. Of course, I'm still angry with you, but I'm sure you knew that. Anger doesn't even seem like the right word anymore. No. I'm sad, and it's not just any sad. This one is deep, way deeper than I thought possible. But at least I can understand angry. In some ways it's useful. Maybe I'll just stick to that._

 _Anyway, I've never been good at writing letters. I don't want to burden you with my ramblings. Please, be well. I know you. Don't overwork. Are you taking care of yourself? Please, Caoilainn, ask for help if you need it._

 _I'll write again soon._

 _\- A_

One Week Later

The dress hugged Caoilainn's shoulders, snug enough sleeves that stretched down to her hands. Warden Blue raw silk, tightly woven kept her warm. More comfortable than she expected, loose around her bust, looser around her belly; she could breathe. Fur lined the hood of the fine wool cloak she wore over, the same color.

Fireplaces burned in each of the rooms in use of the Denerim palace, cared for by staff on rotation. In the grand hall, the ingle of the central hearth burned bright, providing the most warmth to the lower level of the palace. Cold waited in the spaces between, banished to the corners, staircases, and hallways, requiring Caoilainn to hurry from the letter she read in her upstairs office down to the grand hall.

The dining hall had become lonely. Even with some combination of her new guests present with her for breakfast, she had found the space bittersweet. In the short time she had returned to the palace since leaving the Wardens, the long table had become a focal point of her moments with Alistair. Appreciating alone time to prepare for her day, she created a space of her own, a small nook in a sitting room that she repurposed as a second office.

As custom, a young man met her with a mug of tea and a plate of breakfast at the exact moment she reached the lower floor. The young woman who had escorted her down the stairway wandered to some other task in the palace.

Since she had announced her pregnancy, she adapted to the care from her attendants. They helped her dress in the morning, escorting her to the lower office, and often checking on her needs regularly. She had learned to accept the assistance, the needs of her body exhausting her too much to refuse.

Caoilainn smiled and walked with the man, past the dining hall to her secondary office; he set the items down and departed. With all the help the attendants offered, they knew to leave her be once they delivered breakfast. The morning routine had become a creature comfort, a reliable method to approach her day, remedying from the sadness resting on the back of her mind.

Caoilainn settled into her chair, drinking a tonic to reduce her morning symptoms in one gulp, then taking the mug of hot tea to her nose. Ginger complemented the earthy scent, a natural sweetness, the right amount of cream already added. She sipped, welcoming the additional warmth and clarity of mind it provided. Glancing at her schedule on the table, she noted her list of things to do.

Before Caoilainn sat her mug down, her newest guest popped his head in the door.

"I've caught up on the reports from the country's leaders." Teagan leaned in the doorframe, sorting through papers in hand, not looking at Caoilainn. She gave a thin-lipped frown but let him continue. "I'd like to go over a few things with you before I respond, to make sure I understand yours and Alistair's plans for rebuilding the country and considering proper allocation of funds," he glanced up, and added a hurried, "your Majesty."

"Thank you, Teagan," Caoilainn replied, refraining from snapping at him. He had arrived a week prior, and he knew of her recent custom to dine alone. Caoilainn's remedy for her nausea did not promise to improve her mood. "Can it wait until after my meeting for Adalyn?" Once her plans were organized, she met daily with Adalyn to discuss training goals for her army.

The Arl gave a sheepish smile and tilted his head to the side. "I'd say yes, but no." He held up the papers in his hand. "Alistair's bookkeeper is scheduled to meet this morning at the same time as your meeting with your knight."

Caoilainn glanced at the ceiling while taking a breath. She gave a reluctant nod to Teagan toward a chair near the table. "If we could be quick." She took her mug back in hand, holding it close to her chest.

Smile genteel, Teagan entered the small room and sat across from her. An old friend to the royal couple, and an even older acquaintance to Caoilainn, Teagan was notorious for using decorum to his advantage alongside his quick wit and good looks. But his thinning hair and gaunt cheeks made his charm significantly less effective on Caoilainn than when she was younger. Though he wore armor, his absence of physical training showed in his belly.

"You'll have to forgive me for eating while we talk. Would you like some tea?" Caoilainn smiled politely, deliberate not to offer him breakfast, communicating her desire to end this meeting as quickly as possible. Whatever shame she had around the impropriety of eating in front of him dissolved when she felt pangs of hunger.

He nodded and gave a wink. "That would be superb. I am so fortunate to be in the hospitality of one so kind as yourself, my Queen."

 _My Queen._ Words she heard countless times in casual context from staff and civilians, the amorous epithet she longed to hear from Alistair sounded wrong from Teagan. Having long since grown out of her girlhood crush on the current Arl of Redcliffe, she shifted in her seat. Grateful for a passing attendant, Caoilainn waved her hand. The servant stopped to help.

"Another tea, with milk and sugar on the side." She thanked the servant and returned to Teagan.

Caoilainn swallowed another sip and shook her head. "Please, I've returned to serve my role, but you've known me far too long to start calling me that now." She hadn't seen Teagan in her years away from the palace, and he knew better than to ask her reasons for leaving.

"Forgive me, my lady." He crossed his legs. "My etiquette precedes me. I appreciate your time this morning."

Caoilainn gave a small smile, and the attendant returned with Teagan's drink. As he fixed his portions of milk and sugar and they discussed his concerns. Requests from regions within Ferelden for additional support, money, and manpower for rebuilding. He needed her guidance on the priorities of the throne, which regions she deemed necessary to aid first, and the location of the funds.

"According to these numbers, the bank is down to its reserve. If we spend from it, we run the risk of depleting resources if another emergency occurs." He sipped his tea after explaining. "I'm unsure how you wish to proceed."

 _This can't be too complicated._ Caoilainn kept her thought to herself, hoping it to be true. She asked of the most in need, which cities and regions shortages prevented them from functioning and how the country would benefit most from providing aid. She ate her breakfast while Teagan explained.

The answers were not simple. A few of the country's chantries remained unusable, including Redcliffe's. Without the havens for worship, many regions' donation centers could not operate, people in need could not gather. Further, the Hinterlands lacked armed support, their guards eliminated through the events of Corypheus left the village susceptible to bandits and organized crime.

Crestwood's trade slowed since the Fade rift demons destroyed their resources, preventing their supplies from traveling to the rest of Thedas and to Amaranthine to be sold to the Free Marches. Although Amaranthine recovered, most of the port rebuilt, a major dock remained shut down. It influenced both incoming and outgoing trade to the country. The city fared well without the resources, but it cost the rest of the country an adequate supply of key items.

Teagan went over a few other requests with similar circumstances, including one from Starkhaven. They were too many to make any single solution easy to determine.

Caoilainn bit her lip, looking into her tea. A speck of tealeaf floated on the surface; she followed it with her eyes as she thought. When she requested to be included in major decisions, she had assumed herself more equipped. After the Blight, the young royal couple had combined their efforts to make choices for Ferelden, and when she departed to Vigil's Keep, obligations as the Arlessa of Amaranthine required careful consideration. Pride in her responsibility and aptitude as Warden Commander did not serve her here. Previous experience, no matter how similar the circumstances fell short. She had no idea where to start.

"If I may," Teagan spoke up, leaning forward to call her attention, "I can order for the bookkeeper to delay decisions until Alistair returns."

"No," she shook her head, "they need help now. Did Alistair have a plan?"

In all the time she spent preoccupied with the Wardens and even the royal army when she returned, Caoilainn did not notice that Alistair rarely spoke of the details of his responsibilities. She never asked, not comprehending the difficult decisions he made regularly- some of which he may have requested her counsel in their previous life.

Teagan nodded and set down his tea. As he glanced at a few notes, he explained, "At our last meeting he suggested we focus on helping those most immediately affected. Any regions who without support might face illness or death, no matter how small the population. He seemed confident the economy would recover. But if I can offer my opinion, these new reports make me think otherwise."

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. "I have not been involved in the meetings since the breach was formed. I'm not sure I have enough information to make these decisions on my own."

Teagan sipped the last of his tea and set the cup and saucer down on a side table. "I can make a recommendation if you wish."

Knowing the differences between the two men, Caoilainn understood Teagan's plans would differ from Alistair's, but she wished to hear all options She nodded for him to continue.

"As I've suggested to his Majesty, I'd recommend improving trade. A small withdrawal from the reserve would repair the dock in Amaranthine. You can use less money rebuilding chantries to help generate donations and shelter to those in need. The losses should be minimal, your more likely a return of funds and increase the flow of supplies."

She thought about his answer, staring back into her mug. "And if we help rebuild the villages fearing bandits, death, and disease first?"

Teagan frowned, but gave the answer."You will have to use the reserve and it would take longer to build it back up. The least lives would be lost."

"How would Alistair handle this?" She creased her brow as she set her mug down.

"My lady," smiling, Teagan's head leaned to the side, "the King is a most courteous ruler. He would undoubtedly use the reserve to help those most in need. While he is gracious, he is also stubborn. He would insist the economy will rebuild before the depleted reserve is problematic."

A thought occurred, and Caoilainn squinted, looking up. "Could we redistribute any funds from Denerim, or regions that didn't suffer from the effects of the rifts?"

Lips pressing to a thoughtful frown, Teagan shrugged, "I could check in my meeting with the bookkeeper. I know there isn't much room for those adjustments but it might be enough. Regardless, what is your priority, your Majesty?"

"The people," she stood, a sign for Teagan to do the same. "Alistair has been a good leader, and I plan to continue that. If the funds are available by reorganizing expenses, fix the dock in Amaranthine. The reserve will help the smaller regions."

Rising to join her, Teagan confirmed her request and bowed. She escorted him from the room before their conversation could wander back to friendly banter or small talk. Sighing, Caoilainn took the few minutes of quiet to breathe prior to Adalyn's arrival.

The day passed with less effort. Discussing the army's needs with Adalyn proved uncomplicated compared to addressing the state of Ferelden.

"Another letter came, your Majesty," the same attendant who escorted her that morning knocked on her open upper office door. She nodded for him to bring it to her, stating gratitude before he left.

 _Amaranthine._ She recognized the symbol pressed into the seal as her fingers slid under it. Slowly, she scanned the page. The first letter of congratulations for her pregnancy came from the Arlessa of Amaranthine. Caoilainn had appointed Selina as her replacement before returning to the palace after the events caused by the Architect. They had remained in contact about Amaranthine's affairs, particularly when Caoilainn went back to Vigil's Keep.

Since announcing her pregnancy to the palace, she had received a few small gifts and well wishes from within the city. Citizens who wanted to show their happiness for the King and Queen's heir, pleased with the continuation of the Theirin line. But this letter informed Caoilainn that the word has spread outside of the confines of the capital. Soon all of Ferelden would know. It added pressure.

She reread the letter from Selina.

 _Your Majesties,_

 _The Arl and I send you well wishes. You are both a gift to our kingdom and news of your heir promises continued growth and prosperity to Ferelden._

 _Maker watch over you and your child. Long live the King and Queen! To Ferelden!_

The words conveyed the image Caoilainn and Alistair gave the people; a perfect couple, a lie. She was supposed to share this with him, the excitement of announcing the news of their pregnancy to the kingdom. A pit settled in her stomach.

Now she was alone, reading this joy-filled letter, not knowing when he would return, if he would return. _He might not come back._ Glimpses in her mind of his smiling and laughter only worsened longing. Fear emerged from where it hid within her sadness. A lingering dread she held since Ostagar, the knowledge that someday she might lose him permanently.

As if the emotion rose from her heart to her eyes, tears welled and then overflowed. She tossed the letter down on her desk and leaned over, head in hands. Her face scrunched, and she squeaked, failing to hold back from sobbing.

Her crying continued, racking with undenied grief.

A smooth voice called from the doorway. "It is unwise to leave your door open in bouts of intense emotion, should you wish to be alone." Caoilainn looked up to see Morrigan with her arms crossed.

Eyes burning from so many tears, Caoilainn rubbed them and voiced a sarcastic snicker. "Don't you have a son somewhere around here? Shouldn't you be concerned with what he is doing instead of pestering me?"

"Kieran seems to be fascinated with Fergus." Morrigan shrugged and walked in the room, not waiting for an invitation. "Oddly, he has stated he does not mind. Currently, he's showing Kieran how to play with swords."

 _Oren._ The thought pulled at Caoilainn's heart and her eyes welled again. She blinked back the tears and smiled."And you're comfortable with Kieran playing swords?"

"My fears have been lifted about his future. He was intent, and most unfortunately, I suspect a strong genetic component to his desire." Standing behind a chair across from Caoilainn's desk, Morrigan smirked.

The reminder of Kieran's paternity did not cease to be bittersweet, confusing to feel both gratitude and resentment for the young boy's existence. Now more than ever, it connected Caoilainn and Morrigan deeper than friendship.

"Your tears are wasted. I can think of at least ten ways you could better spend your energy."

Blunt as usual, Morrigan was unwilling to cushion advice with sweet words or pampering.

It made Caoilainn laugh. "I have my own fears, Morrigan," Caoilainn sat up straighter and crossed her arms. "Alistair might not return. I might be left to care for the kingdom and this child on my own."

A condescending hushing sound came from Morrigan. "You speak as if you weren't raised from birth to do so. Sad as you may be, you would be well equipped to manage those responsibilities, and your support system is extensive."

Exasperated, Caoilainn shook her head. " _You_ speak as if I'd ever get out of bed again. If I lost Alistair, I don't know if I could live."

"You would have to," Morrigan's hand waved toward Caoilainn's belly, "If not for you, then for him."

 _It's true._ Caoilainn admitted without voicing her agreement. She paused, frowning. "You still believe it's a boy?"

Giving a solitary nod, Morrigan replied, "I do. Have you chosen a name?"

Caoilainn made a small shake of her head and mumbled, "I'm waiting for Alistair."

"Then let us keep faith he returns, lest you will have a nameless son."

The comprehensive fear of losing Alistair ran deeper than death. Caoilainn pressed her hand to her belly. "He might return and still decide to leave me."

"'Tis his choice," Morrigan's hand waved away the concern, "though I doubt he has the capacity. As much as he may think otherwise and as much as it makes me gag, his love for you is unconditional."

Caoilainn exhaled through her nose, tapping her foot under her desk. "Morrigan, you assume too much as usual." Her hands extended above the desk, annoyed, frustrated. She took a breath and set her hands down over the letter from Amaranthine. "You don't understand how much I've hurt him, over and over."

Scoffing, Morrigan raised her voice. "I know what you did. You blamed him for everything and now you insist on owning all culpability, Caoilainn. Who does that help?" Stunned, Caoilainn's mouth opened without a reply. Morrigan huffed and continued with her rant. "No one. You and he are each responsible for your marriage. Your crimes were blatant, but he is not without flaws. He must own his choices, including to stay with you, and you cannot take that from him."

"I don't..." Caoilainn's mumbling trailed off.

With a sigh, Morrigan twirled her hand. "Enough. 'Tis nothing to dwell on in his absence. When he returns, you can determine how you will live. For now, reserve your energy to care for your offspring."

"I'm trying." Caoilainn mumbled thanks. Gratitude admitted, Caoilainn could not deny the validity of the suggestions the Morrigan had given since she arrived.

Patient and knowing, Morrigan acknowledged Caoilainn's efforts with a nod. "I'll see you at dinner." Slow steps took Morrigan to the door, but she turned before leaving. "You will find no absolution from your sins in fear. Not even giving him a son will make him forgive you."

Caoilainn gave a respectful hum of agreement. "I've noticed." She could not argue, but another thought came to mind. "Morrigan," Caoilainn murmured, "What happened to Kieran at Skyhold?"

Lips pulled down, Morrigan made a pensive chuckle. "'Tis no concern of yours. I will see you at dinner, Caoilainn." Morrigan left Caoilainn's room. Her footsteps echoing as she walked toward the stairs.

* * *

*Writer's note* Thank you SO MUCH to the people that let me know they were reading. Words of encouragement, feedback, anything is so nice. I know not everyone is a commenter, but the thought/effort is so freaking appreciated.


	12. Lethallin

_Choppy waves crashed against the cargo ship as the group loaded onto the vessel. An obscure dock faded among many, loading animals and cargo to take to Nevarra. Alanna and Leliana coordinated with the captain and hired hands to move the travel party's horses and items. A few minor mishaps, caused directly by a miscommunication between Alistair and Nathaniel, delayed the group's disembarking, but all challenges quickly cleared thanks to Leliana's problem-solving._

 _The Wardens wore cloaks to hide their colors, and everyone in the party wore hoods to maintain their anonymity. They would have looked suspicious if the rest of the port wasn't already filled with citizens in similar attire._

 _With Leliana at her side, Alanna stood on the pier, watching the crew preparing to leave._ Updates from Leliana kept her informed of the status of their leaving, the success of Lelaina and Alanna's mission, and their plans to return to Skyhold, which Alanna continued to stall.

 _Gratitude for Hale's safe departure balanced with annoyance that Hale had ignored Alanna all morning. Familial love and concern lost on her vitriolic relative, any attempts Alanna made at fleeting conversation met a wall. She eventually retired efforts as she watched them take the final steps to leaving._

 _The group she had aided milled from the gangplank into the belly of the ship. The ineloquent man, the King of Ferelden approached her first. She braced herself for his unneeded thanks. At Skyhold she had deciphered that his over-concern with his wife's whereabouts exceeded his concern with the wellbeing of Thedas; he let his wife walk all over him._

 _"_ _Your help is much appreciated, Inquisitor." He pressed his lips together and bowed his head._

 _"_ _It was the least I could do." Reticent with her goodwill, Alanna nodded. Stern face but soft voice, she added, "Those who survived Erimond's blood magic served the Inquisition. Their well-being is our concern, but the Wardens are secretive. There is only so much I can do."_

 _"_ _Let's just hope we can find them. If we can, we should have enough Wardens among us that they will accept our help." A weak smile crossed his lips._

 _"_ _Yes," Alanna answered, crossing her arms over her chest. A tiny grin pulled at her lips as she glanced toward the Champion, the only person among them who hadn't served the Wardens. Alanna had noticed he had been in a much better mood than in his time with the Inquisition. She looked back to Alistair. "I hope Garrett Hawke's presence doesn't cause you too much trouble."_

 _Alistair's brow creased for a moment. "Or Fiona's."_

 _"_ _Of course." Alanna forced a polite smile. Not wishing to assume common knowledge of Fiona's prior life as a Grey Warden_

 _The King responded with a confused blink, but let the awkward moment passed. After reiterating thanks, he made his way into the ship's lower compartments. Alanna exhaled, sighing at her error. The conversation she had with Fiona at Skyhold, her questions about the King- the secrets of her history were not Alanna's to reveal._

 _As if she could read Alanna's mind, the former Grand Enchanter walked up to her. "I hope all is well, Inquisitor." Fiona's eye were narrowed, concerned, questioning._

 _"Whatever secrets you keep from him are not mine to tell," Alanna lowered her head in respect. She glanced up to_ _Fiona. "But I suspect he has questions about you."_

 _"_ _Thank you," Fiona replied, then sighed and looked toward the boat. "Thank you for everything."_

 _Alanna nodded, witnessing pain behind Fiona's eyes, but unable to find better words to help. She Fiona's hands in hers and squeezed, a silent commitment of camaraderie. "Let me know if there is any other way I can help."_

 _Fiona squeezed back and gave a timid bow. She walked away, helping the other woman, the Warden mage, carry something onto the ship._

 _The Champion of Kirkwall came up to Alanna next. A frown pulled his lips; black hair messy and beard unkempt, he looked like he had already been at sea for three days and not slept in an inn for the night. Alanna's brow wrinkle, concerned. The weight of his decisions at Kirkwall had haunted him in the Fade._

 _She opened her mouth to talk, but before she could reply, Hawke's frown changed to a mischievous grin. "Maker watch over you, Alanna. Thank you." With no other explanation, he walked the gangplank into the ship. Alanna shook her head as she watched him walk away._

 _"_ _Oy," an unexpected voice called Alanna to turn around. Hale frowned with displeasure standing beside to the Warden Commander. He wore a formal smile, his posture proper. It made up for Hale's poor attitude._

 _"_ _Inquisitor," Nathaniel spoke with a polite nod, "thank you again for your help. I hope to have answers soon, for everyone's sake."_

 _"_ _Arani, I am happy to help." She gave a friendly smile then looked at Hale. "Please be safe, my cousin."_

 _Hale's loud eye roll responded to Alanna's request._

 _Eyes fixed on Hale, Alanna made a disappointed exhale. "Mar sal'shiral mithel din mala, Panelan'banalla. Mar shiral din'eth la'var shia i'tel mar'lethal." ("Your life is closer to death now, Grey Warden [lit. Darkspawn Fighter]. Your path is unclear as long as you travel without your kind.")_

 _Hale scoffed and Alanna sighed, tired of trying to talk reason to Hale. Culture and tradition strengthened the Lavellan clan. The hope that Hale matured enough to appreciate the sense of belonging the clan could offer never left Alanna. She refused to give up._

 _But Hale clenched her teeth, stewing as she glared at Alanna._

 _With a gentle sigh, Alanna murmured, "Asa'var'len-"_

 _"_ _Fuck, Alanna. Diana... etunash!" (Stop... shit!) Hale barked back, then growled with frustration. She lifted her hands to keep Alanna away. Nathaniel stood beside her, confused eyebrows bunching. With a deep breath, Hale's eyes darted to Nathaniel and back to Alanna; she continued, "Harth' em. Ar unv'na vhenas! Nathaniel nuven'in saoto. Is ma'lethal, ma'vhenan." (Listen to me. I found my home. Nathaniel wishes to marry. He is my home, my heart.) Clipped words from Hale's Denerim accent seeped through her elvhen, but the message was clear. When she finished, Hale gestured her hand toward her chest, glowering._

 _"_ _Ahn?" (What?) Alanna's eyes widened. Teary, she glanced from Hale to Nathaniel. Her mouth opened. "Min vindhru?" (Is this true?)_

 _Hale made an exaggerated exhale and rolled her eyes. "You heard me. So enough of this shite about me going back." She tugged at Nathaniel's arm to follow her to the ship. "We gotta go."_

 _The Warden Commander's face wrinkled in confusion; he looked from Alanna to Hale walking away. Shrugging to Alanna, he sighed. "Take care, Inquisitor."_

 _"_ _And you, lethallin. Dareth shiral." Alanna bowed, watching him follow her cousin into the depth of the cargo vessel._

 _Conflicting emotions swirled; Alanna's heart filled with joy, lighting up with happiness for her vagabond cousin, but shadows of disappointed undermined the happiness. Hale had found a human partner; she would not contribute elven children to the Lavellan clan and she would not return home. Though unsurprised by the outcome, Hale finding love and choosing to marry baffled Alanna. She gave a heavy-hearted sigh, the defeated weight of the loss of her cousin magnified._

 _The final members of the crew took their final checks on the ship, untie the boat, and pull in the gangplank before the boat drifted off. When it was out of sight, Alanna left with Leliana to travel back to Skyhold._

The voyage, if anyone could call it that, lasted only two days. The cramped boat Hawke had taken to Kirkwall had been far worse, filled with other refugees, all fleeing the Blight-corrupted Ferelden. That day long boat ride had turned into two weeks at sea. An excess of people, inconvenient weather patterns, and crowded waterways hindered the boat's passage.

This time, Corypheus second defeat had lifted fears of Thedesians, allowing for a faster journey from Jader to Cumberland. Even the short trip did not save the group from grumbling the entire way- in particular, the Warden Commander and the King of Ferelden. Opposing personalities led to repeated conflict, and their plans for the journey only seemed to differ more when they spoke. By the time they reached their destination, they had split into separate corners of the hold.

Hawke found his own entertainment by watching them. The smaller tiffs between Nathaniel Howe and his lady made their laughing, light-hearted conversations turn vicious in a split second. Whatever the Fiona woman was hiding influenced her reserved demeanor. She spoke softly to everyone, clasping her hands, minimizing her already petite size, and her eyes reliably darted to Alistair at least once an hour, no matter the topic or counterpart of her discussion. The other mage woman, haughty and proper, was almost too easy to rile. It didn't stop Hawke from instigating trivial arguments with her.

The sea voyage ended at colorful Cumberland. The massive city stretched on for ages. Districts appointed to cultures and ranks changed every few blocks along with the architecture. Lavish guarded buildings indicated the highest tier of the region's societies, not allowing any non-natives to enter. It all built up to the College of Magi, elaborately decorated with gold. Hawke noticed Fiona keeping her head down, tugging at the hood of her cloak to shield her face as they passed the building.

The market set aside for shopping and dining reflected the rest of the city. Even the smallest vendors carried the finest cuisine, and the number of merchants made the shopping district well stocked. It was easy to forget the portside of town once immersed in the city.

Refilling their supplies took little effort, and their supply of gold was intact with the thanks of a donation to the Wardens from the Inquisition, a last memento Alanna had delivered to the ship after they thanked her for her help. They finally retired to private rooms with the softest beds Hawke had ever slept in at the inn they occupied that night. He found it amusing the Commander and the King had coordinated to have rooms on opposite ends of the hall.

No one was inclined to leaving the next morning, but the group did. Five days had passed, and memories of the beautiful city with its decadent food and drink still lingered on the back of Hawke's mind. His mouth watered each time he reminisced.

But as much as his heart, and stomach, and body yearned for the comforts of Cumberland, the trek continued, as well as the tempers of certain group members.

The Imperial Highway marked the way of their journey north. Another symbol of Thedas' history dating back to the control of Tevinter Imperium, the well-founded road connected the nations. Flat and barren land replaced the rocky terrain the further north they rode.

The pending desert and predicted perils of the Silent Plains required a detour to Nevarra City, adding three days to their trip. They traded their Fereldan winter garb for crafted gear to breathe and see through the dust and dirt. Finer weapons and potions would aid battles against the region's rumored wyverns and ghouls.

The King's frustration with the delay was visible, but when given the choice to divert their path and continue North, or change directions completely and travel through Orlais, he begrudgingly chose the former when the group continued North.

Afternoon light created long shadows as they walked their horses. The creatures needed a break from a day of hard riding. Walking with the young archer, Hawke suspected she was avoiding her beau while Nathaniel talked to Philippa about their plans for the Anderfels. Hale had kept her conversations with Nathaniel minimal since Jader and exerted surprising effort to connect with her other party members.

Hawke didn't mind; Hale's company promised a distraction from the stressors of the quest, particularly the haunting fear the Warden disaster related back to Corypheus, not completely dead, yet again. He had kept this concern quiet since he joined the party, certain if the Elder One was involved, Hawke needed to bring him down.

Hawke explained his experience with the Wardens when he helped the Inquisition to Hale. The silhouette of red-headed elf danced as she lifted her arms in exclamation. "The fuck do you mean? We faced the same shite in the Wilds as Alanna's Inquisition wankers. Who's she not to trust us?"

"I didn't either," Hawke admitted, recalling his visit to the Fade after the battle at Adamant. "The Orlesian Wardens were corrupted by Corypheus. We had no way to know you all hadn't been deceived by him too."

"'Cept that we weren't toting sodding demons on our backs. Not crying about that false fuckin' Calling." She growled, frustrated with the subject.

Hawke glanced her way, taken aback by her conviction. Her bright green eyes met his. Red lips chapped from the dry climate curved up to a grin. She added, "Thought you were a sick arsehole who liked things corrupted."

An involuntary laugh escaped him and he shook his head. "Now that's a completely different kind of corruption."

Her eyebrows lifted, and her grin remained, anticipating a more detailed response. Oils on her face shined in the light. The yellows and golds of the arid land complemented her olive skin, hues of which had deepened since they began their adventure. Her messy dark red hair fell to one side of her face.

He waved a lone finger at her, warning her of his lewdness. "I'll save the particulars from your precious little ears."

"Piss off," she laughed, giving him a playful scowl. "Don't wanna imagine yer hairy arse ploughing anyone anyway."

She kept laughing, amused with herself and Hawke watched, appreciating her humor on his behalf. He recognized a fire in the woman, unquenchable like whatever burned within Isabela- wherever she was, out at sea. Someday Hale's insults to her peers and enemies would become pet names; those lanky steps would develop a more consistent and confident strut, Hawke had no doubt.

He smirked, inhaling to come back with some clever, witty comment he was sure would develop as he spoke.

But a man's deliberate cough interrupted them. "Hale," Nathaniel Howe walked his horse closer to her, lifting his head in inquiry, "could I have a word?"

Nodding, Hale slowed so she could walk with Nathaniel between their horses. As he walked ahead, Hawke glanced back to notice she gave a last glance in his direction.

Her gaze didn't linger and neither did his. He transferred his attention to the sorceress. "So, Philippa, how old _are_ you?"

The woman scoffed and rolled her eyes, but Hawke continued their conversation, moving to questions about her experience with entropic magic. Philippa's chin lifted and her chest puffed with pride. She explained subtle elements of channeling the Fade to negate energy, drawing from the target as opposed contributing force. In the midst of the nearly decent conversation, Hawke caught ear of a growing quiet quarrel between the young woman and her Commander. _What's this?_ Hawke glanced over his shoulder.

Nathaniel extended a hand toward Hale, pulling her attention back to him from wherever hers had wandered. "You still haven't told me what you said to Alanna. I heard my name."

"Nothing important." Hale sighed and patted the neck of her horse. She rolled her eyes to Nate. "I was getting her off my case about coming home. Same as always."

"It looked important." The Commander's forehead lifted in doubt; he reached for her hand again. "You don't have to lie to me."

"Come on, mate." She snorted, laughing off the tender sentiment while pulling her hand closer to herself. "I'd tell you if it mattered. But it don't." She squinted and her eyes drifted forward to Hawke.

Imperative to seem as if he was minding his own business, he returned his eyes to the path ahead, interjecting an unneeded and affirming reply to Philippa. "Why, yes, of course, I _love_ Miasma smell."

"I said spell, not smell, you fool." Shaking her head, Philippa continued lecturing about the unique methods of channeling spells for this school of magic.

Hoping for a successful decoy with his false conversation with Philippa, his ears keened to hear the couple again. Try as he might to resist, his curiosity about the confusing couple only grew the more he got to know them. He mumbled short replies to Philippa and his eyes darted back to the duo.

A disappointed frown tugged at Nathaniel's lips. He took a deep breath. "Hale…"

Alistair's loud voice caught everyone's attention."You know this really isn't any of our business." The King walked his horse a short distance beside them, slightly removed from the group. He had kept to himself most of the day, not unlike other periods of their travel. Now he spoke loud enough for even Hawke and Philippa to hear."Most couples would save this discussion for times when they had more… _any_ privacy."

Laughing with annoyance, Nathaniel turned his head to face Alistair. His voice remained calm, collected even though disdain coated his words. "You're right… this isn't any of your business, your _Majesty._ So kindly, stay out of it."

The sarcastic smile that spread on Alistair's face neared malevolence. "Oh but if I could," his lip raised, "But it seems if we're not all listening to you nag at each other, we have to listen to you two... you know, all night."

Nathaniel stopped walking and lifted his hand to his chest in shock. Straight-faced, he spoke with a flat tone. "Goodness. Please, forgive me. I'd suggest you find something else to listen to rather than our conversations or our lovemaking. But thank you, now that I know the latter bothers you so much, I'll make sure we're louder next time."

The rest of the group slowed, the women kept their eyes averted from the growing dispute. With no shame, Hawke took the opportunity to watch with complete attention. He noticed the specific choice of words from the Commander. _Love making, is it?_

"Shite, Nate. Shut it." Blushing, Hale smacked Nathaniel's arm with the back of her hand. The young woman's eyes darted to Philippa for help. "Don't need this arsehole."

 _Interesting change of pace,_ Hawke noted. The reserved Warden Commander incited the anger of the King, proclaiming whatever filthy things even Hawke had heard Nathaniel doing with Hale as lovemaking. In contradiction, the brash woman who had claimed apathy for who heard ordered him to back down. Snide remarks between the King and Commander had escalated the further North they traveled. It seemed to have reached a breaking point.

Philippa shook her head at Hale and walked around her horse to Fiona, starting a distracted conversation. Both women kept to themselves, ignoring Nathaniel and Alistair's argument, and leaving Hale to fend for herself.

A small step took Hawke closer to the argument. "Come on, gentlemen." He spoke up, crossing his arms over his chest.

Alistair ignored him. The King's forehead wrinkled, he pointed at Hale then to Nathaniel. "You should listen to the young lady, Nathaniel _Howe_. Maybe that would help a few of your issues."

"Your Majesty," Nathaniel's smirk grew and he arched an eyebrow, "as much as I _do not_ appreciate it, I believe you are the last person to give anyone relationship advice."

The King laughed wryly. "Right, because you're such a beacon of honor, aren't you?" He shifted his jaw, the sarcastic grin melting to a frown. "I'm honestly surprised your little archer is still around... Doesn't she know you prefer them married?"

 _There it is._ The final pieces fit together. Hawke had noticed their tension since the palace and this revealed the source- a broken code between men, not that Hawke believed in that sort of thing. But some did, and the more he witnessed of these particular men's interactions, the more clear it became.

"Whoa, boys." Passing the reins of his horse to Philippa, Hawke stepped closer to the argument, arms out to separate Nathaniel and Alistair.

The Warden Commander gritted his teeth, his nostrils flaring, facing the King who wore a smug frown.

Hawke continued, "We know you both fucked the Queen and none of us care… unless either of you would like to divulge any lurid details. Then, maybe I'd care a little."

Brows creasing, Alistair's mouth gaped open and his cheeks turned red; questioning eyes narrowed, darting to Hawke, then Philippa and Fiona. He stood frozen in place, unwilling or unable to break the silence.

Hawke lifted his hands impatiently. "If you're really going to bicker about it for the entire trip, maybe you could do it elsewhere," he pointed off into the distance, "because you're standing on the perfect place to camp."

Looking at their feet, Alistair and Nathaniel's eyes scanned the ground around them. Reluctantly and bewildered, they walked with their horses a few paces in separate directions, clearing the space where Hawke indicated setting camp. Neither man looked back to resume the conflict.

Annoyed steps took Hawke into the clearing, joining Hale to put up their tents. The young woman wore a wide, entertained grin, stifling giggles as she secured her horse and unloaded her pack. Hawke took her smile as an incentive to continue, he mumbled, "Really… if this feud doesn't end in them snogging, I will be severely disappointed."

Dropping her bag, Hale made a choking sound. She covered her mouth and watering eyes followed Nathaniel before meeting Hawke's gaze. Her body shook, withholding raucous laughter.

Grinning, Hawke knelt to the ground to unload his pack of its camping contents. The other women joined them, quietly practicing the repetitive motions of building their resting place, this time at the edge of the Silent Plains. In two days time, they would reach Tevinter. Hawke couldn't help his intermittent glances to the young archer, noticing her wiping laughter-induced tears from her cheeks.

* * *

***Writer's Note: Thank you all again for the kind words. It's honestly a relief to get the messages. I was so scared this fic was flopping lol. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter. If you care to leave a comment, I am most grateful. Happy Holidays!**


	13. The Sandstorm

It still hurt Fiona to see Alistair in pain. His warranted loathing of the Warden Commander made him miserable, and Hawke's instigating only worsened the fight. The group had ventured into the Silent Plains in an eerie silence. Even without the need to feign ignorance about Nathaniel and Caoilainn's dalliance, Fiona and Philippa concluded in hushed tones that staying out of the dispute was their best decision. Neither had confidence to address Nathaniel or Alistair in their current stewing states.

Fiona had her own concerns. The barrage of questions from Hawke and Alistair about her past left her confused and aversive. She had laid low from the rest of the party to reduce their suspicions, pretending to be oblivious to the Wardens symptoms when the conversation arose. She was grateful for the Silent Plains. Sandstorms and heat drained each person of their will to talk; dry mouths craved moisture. They conserved their energy and continued traveling.

Roaming phoenixes and varghests attacked; the brief battles required the contribution of the entire party with an emphasis on magical power. Within the desolation, precious respite from the desert provided glimpses of the land prior to the first Blight. Remnants of villages arose from the sand, creating a barrier from the blasts of wind and a chance to take off their covered cowls to breathe clean air.

Drinking from her waterskin, Fiona watched her horse sip from the container she had placed on a raised ledge for him. Water, a valuable commodity in these conditions, required diligent moderation to assure enough for everyone and their horses to make it through the Plains. Her horse's visible gratitude for the basic need soothed Fiona as she watched; she only gave vague attention to Philippa's frame entering her periphery.

The woman's high waistband cinched tight and emphasized the sassy swaying of her hips as she walked. Fiona gave a weak smile, appreciating the presence of her unique friend in this journey. Philippa's crass wisdom had become a reliable break from the tension in the rest of their party.

"Dear, I can't stand you being so sullen." Her hands on her hips, Philippa's confrontation only lacked a scolding finger. "Was it seeing Cumberland? Fuck them!"

In their research of the Warden illness, Fiona explained her embarrassment over the encounter with Alexius, the harm it caused so many, and its ultimate end to her career with the College of Enchanters. Philippa gave encouraging words, brushing off the incident as a mistake. She had asked for no further explanations or remorse from Fiona.

Relieved that Phillipa attributed Fiona's current silence to their time near the Circle, Fiona did not answer the question. With a dramatic wave of her hand, the Warden sorceress stepped beside Fiona and nudged Fiona's hip with her own. Looking over her shoulder to the rest of the party, Philippa chatted, "Come now, we must be adults when these dimwits wish to act like children. I've some thoughts on the Wardens."

"Really?" Fiona's brow furrowed; she looked to her side, finding Philippa's amused gaze. Their entire reason for traveling, reaching the Anderfels to remedy the sickness plaguing the order had seemed far from the minds of their travel party.

"Yes, and I'd tell you, but I know I smell worse than a pile of nug dung. I'm going to shed a few layers of these sweat-soaked rags and wash." Pulling a cloth from her pouch, Philippa showed it and her water skin. "You are free to join me to do the same, my dear."

Fiona couldn't hold back a light laugh. She inhaled and sighed. Freedom from the clothes that had been sticking to her skin all day, joined with the feel of cool water sounded decadent in the circumstances. Nodding, Fiona scrounged through her bag for a spare cloth and walked with Philippa far enough from camp.

An enclave created by large rocks gave the women some shade and privacy. They stood a few paces away from each other. With her back turned to Fiona, Philippa talked as she undressed.

"If we hang these filthy clothes for an hour, they might be bearable to put back on." She took off her over-shirt and shook it out, creating a cloud of dust and dirt. She did the same with her skirt and draped them both over a nearby rock.

Following her lead, Fiona removed her layers. Stripping down to her small clothes, she placed her clothes on a different rock, allowing the sun to bake out her sweat. Without clothes on, the faintest breezes brushed Fiona's skin, making the hairs on her arms and legs stand on end. But the heat didn't lessen, with more flesh exposed absorbed more heat; she grew warm and beads of sweat formed on her forehead and lower back.

Just a few steps away, the other woman had already doused her rag with water and started washing. Careful not to pour too much, Fiona dampened her rag. Without wringing it out, she draped it over the back of her neck and sighed. Cool moisture immediately lessened her body's heat. Given the choice, she would have chosen to leave the cloth there the rest of the night, but as it sat, she acknowledged the other areas of her body too dry or clammy, yearning to be washed. She moved the washcloth from her neck to her face, then her limbs.

"Dear, those marks." Philippa's soft and concerned voice brought Fiona's attention back to the present, a reminder she was not alone. "What happened?"

Fiona rarely saw the scars on her back, marks left by her master before she killed him. She cursed herself for her carelessness, forgetting to hide the secret. The furious loss of control of her magical ability had taken his life in an instant. She had no regrets about what she had done, aside from perhaps the wish she could have made him suffer more. But the memory still haunted, interrupting her sleep from time to time.

"It's nothing for us to discuss now." Fiona turned so she faced Philippa. Fewer marks from the same abuser added to those she had gained from her journey with Maric covered her arms and legs. "Another time. Tell me about your thoughts on the Wardens."

The woman's eyes pierced Fiona's, scanning for the story behind the scars. Having long since buried that nightmare deep within, along with many other secrets, Fiona held her neutral expression, an interested gaze, ready to move on to another topic.

With a gentle nod, Philippa's mouth opened a second before words came out. "I… was just thinking of the motto. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death-"

"Sacrifice," Fiona murmured, dragging the damp cloth across her chest. Water droplets dripped down her stomach, making her muscles tighten and retract.

Eyes squinting, Philippa lifted her chin. "Yes… well, Alistair and Caoilainn's departure from the bond did not result from such a sacrifice. Had any other long-standing Warden died serving or to the Calling, it wouldn't have caused this."

The logic made sense and Fiona felt a familiar weight on her chest return. Old shame for her cure joined guilt she carried for curing Alistair. Crossing her arms, Fiona's brow furrowed. "I've wondered if we did the right thing by curing them."

Shaking her head, Philippa scoffed. "It's what they wanted." She dragged the washcloth, taking advantage of whatever contents of water it still held and ran it over her waist, looking down as she did.

"But at what cost?" Fiona put her cloth down on a bare rock. "How many people are suffering because of what we did?"

"This is temporary." With a shake of her cloth, Philippa frowned. "We protected Ferelden by giving Caoilainn and the King a chance to have an heir."

"The crown would fall to someone else and Ferelden would survive. What if something horrible had happened to them in the ritual?"

Philippa's face scrunched and she sighed. "They are fine. It's not so simple, Fiona, my dear. Freeing them from the Bond was the right thing to do. As mages, we have responsibilities to use our magic for reasons beyond what the Circle ordains. Those of us with sound minds, minds that resist the voices luring us in the Fade, we have even greater duties to uphold for the good of many."

"Sound minds?" Fiona's voice rose, she pointed at Philippa with her hand. "You used blood magic in the Arbor Wilds! You risked the Wardens' livelihood and then we allowed Morrigan to use blood magic on my… on the King and Queen of Ferelden with the off-chance they could be cured." She sighed, grateful she caught herself before naming Alistair as her child.

Rolling her eyes in exasperation Philippa huffed, "You have no room to judge me. We all equally accepted the risks when they made the choice to try the ritual. Why do you care so much now? You're not even a Warden!"

"I'm not." _Anymore._ Fiona withheld the word biting at the tip of her tongue. "But I know that becoming a Warden is a lifetime commitment. The Joining contracts your death. We should not have the power to decide who deserves to be cured and who doesn't."

Giving an embittered laugh, Philippa pressed her index finger into her own chest. "I followed the orders of my commander, and I helped her find what she needed." The same hand turned, Philippa pointed at Fiona. "If you were a Grey Warden, you would understand."

Clenching her teeth to no avail, the words slipped out on their own. Head dizzy with anger, Fiona yelled, "I was a Grey Warden, Philippa! I've felt the Calling!"

Philippa's jaw dropped along with her cloth. Shirtless, the light mist from her towel bath glimmered on her skin. Heavy breaths made her chest rise and fall.

Fiona stepped closer, but Philippa recoiled, putting her arms out to keep her away. Preemptively shushing the other woman, Fiona tried to sooth Philippa. "I'll explain everything," she lied. "Just please, promise me you won't tell the others."

Speechless, Philippa gave a skeptical nod and Fiona closed the space between them.

* * *

 _"We know you both fucked the Queen."_

Hawke's words continued to ring in Alistair's ears, making him cringe to consider the depth of intimacy Alistair shared with Caoilainn could remotely compare to what Nathaniel did with her. _To her._ Stomach-churning pictures of Caoilainn enjoying Nathaniel Howe, pictures Alistair had managed to push down, even when he had received reports of Caoilainn's activities from his spies at Vigil's Keep, now rushed to the surface. It made him nauseous. Multiple times on their trek through the Plains, he had to stop, fearing he was close to retching.

None seemed surprised at Hawke's announcement, confirming Alistair's shameful secret had not been a secret to them.

Worse, breathing was difficult. The cloth Alistair wore smothered his face, and even though it kept the sand and dust and dirt from traveling down his lungs, he hadn't taken a decent breath since they entered the Plains. It was even worse when they fought the violent creatures lurking through the dust storms. Only the places where they found cover, hiding in the remnants of villages, or when they crowded into narrow caves or behind upturned trees could he remove the mask, finding reprieve from the dense and oppressive air, attempting to quench his lungs' thirst for oxygen. The group took every chance they could to utilize moments to breathe, hiding from the storms.

Sand managed to creep beneath his hood and through his face mask, burning his eyes. He had to keep his head lowered when the wind picked up, covering his eyes with his hands to make sure he followed the horse of the person in front of him. When ominous clouds of dust storms descended upon them, they found shelter to protect themselves and their horses from the wreckage.

The land stretched on, desolate, disconcerting; the path behind absorbed into the clouds of sand. It interfered with Alistair's sense of time, forgetting if they had traveled through the Plains for a day or a week. It didn't matter. His only objective was to keep walking, riding, and breathing.

Nathaniel Howe led them. Quiet like the rest, head down to the dust, Alistair suspected the man brooded too. He witnessed Nathaniel silent and curt with the rest of them at stops, even his girlfriend. It made for sweet vengeance, a sick satisfaction Nathaniel now felt just as miserable.

Challenges communicating through the waves of sand required the group to save questions for stops. This time, a decent sized cave gave shelter from the sunlight and consuming clouds of dust. Another wave of dust storm approaches them from the distance. They secured their horses at the leeward side of a large boulder.

Removing the cloth wrap from around his face, Alistair mumbled to the group. "It's been almost three days, hasn't it? Shouldn't we be in Tevinter by now?" He took off his armor.

Philippa nodded at Alistair and glanced sadly at the Commander. "Yes, Nathaniel, dear. I thought we'd be out of this awful desert yesterday." She sat down on a rock, on the opposite side of the cave as Fiona, who sat quietly removing the armored sections of her clothing.

Nathaniel shirked his shoulders and gave an annoyed shake of his head; he put the plated sections of his armor in a neat pile out of the way. "We cannot ride through the storms; the monsters slow us down. It is taking longer than we originally calculated."

Alistair rolled his eyes. "Or maybe we're lost."

Nathaniel squinted. "We're traveling straight north. We can't be lost."

Hawke entered the cave well after them, followed by the young woman Hale. An overconfident stride carried him as he took his cowl off. He wrinkled his brow and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "Those rocks look familiar. Do those rocks look familiar to the rest of you?"

With a meager nod, Fiona spoke up, "I remember seeing them yesterday."

"Oi!" Hale barked to Hawke, tossing her wrap to the ground. "It's a fuckin' desert. There's rocks everywhere."

With his head tilting back, Nathaniel exhaled quickly. "Fuck." Free of his armor, he grabbed the cloth mask and wrapped it back around his head as he walked out of the cave.

Silence loomed over the interior of the cavern. Shaped rocks rose from the ground and hung from the ceiling, a few bugs crawled up the walls. Members of the group passed awkward glances between each other, disappointed by this new information suggesting they were lost.

Raising her voice enough to break through the quiet, Fiona offered an explanation. "The storms can play tricks with the sunlight. It's easy to mistake one's direction."

"...or another's honesty." Philippa muttered from across the cavern. Uncertain he understood the comment, Alistair didn't investigate.

Instead, he laughed, bitter and biting. "Then the one leading the group should know that and pay more attention, shouldn't he?" His eyes scanned the other members who offered back nothing more than shrugs and lowered eyes. "This is ridiculous."

Wrapping his mask back around his face and over his head, Alistair rushed from the cave to find Nathaniel. The man stood on an elevation; he had climbed a few rocks to gain a better view of the surrounding region. One hand planted on Nathaniel's hip while the other shielded his eyes as he looked into the distance. Alistair climbed the few steps of rocks, pushing up to reach Nathaniel's level.

"What have you ruined now, Warden Commander?" Alistair chuckled, crossing his arms as he stood a few paces behind the other man. Nathaniel turned around.

Strong wind blew against both of them, carrying a few lines of sand circling through the air. Their balance tested, they regained composure.

Though the cowl shrouded his face, Alistair noticed Nathaniel's eyes roll. His shoulders tightened. "I don't know, your majesty. I'm still trying to figure that out." He turned back around, looking out into the distance.

Grinding his teeth, Alistair swallowed. Irritated with the dismissive annoyance from this sorry excuse for a man, Alistair laughed. "You know, I am not surprised you couldn't even direct us in a straight line."

Sighing, Nathaniel turned around again. "I made no claims to know this region better than any among us. When none would lead, including you, I volunteered." He stepped past Alistair to the edge of the rock. "I know the way we need to go."

Maneuvering down, gripping the rocks in the right places and stepping his feet into the small cracks between the large stones, Nathaniel returned to the sand with a small thump. Alistair followed, with less grace sliding to each lower level until his feet plopped on the ground. A generous bend in his knees cushioned his descent.

"And what do you mean by that, Nathaniel _Howe?_ Is it bad I'm not willing to pretend I know what I'm doing at the risk of putting us all in danger?" As Alistair followed Nathaniel, he realized the rest of their party stood to watch from the entrance of the cave. Worried looks crossed Fiona and Philippa's faces.

Nathaniel stopped mid-stride and spun on his feet to look down at Alistair. Standing at least a hand higher, Nathaniel spoke down. "This is petty, Alistair. I've apologized to you. I cannot change the past. Let's move on."

Another gust of wind surrounded them with fine sand; the cloud settled to the ground as it subsided. Alistair pulled the mask from over his mouth; the cowl fell around his neck. "Oh! Has it been that simple this whole time? I'll just forget about what you did so we can all go on our merry ways."

A concerned voice called from the cavern, muffled even in the short distance. "Boys!" Philippa waved her hand toward the interior of the cave. "You should stop acting like children and come inside before the storm picks up."

Peering over his shoulder, Alistair observed Hawke shaking his head to Philippa. Alistair couldn't tell if Hawke was grinning or not.

Returning his glare to Nathaniel, Alistair found the man's eyes unamused and neutral, bored with the interaction. It frustrated Alistair more, the urge to goad a reaction from the Warden Commander itching at his skin.

To Alistair's surprise, Nathaniel pulled his mask down also; the grey cowl rested on his shoulders. "You have the luxury of obsessing over the past like a schoolboy. It must be nice to have so little regard for the strength of the Order now that you're no longer a Warden."

 _Son of a bitch._ Though it was a small victory, getting a rise from the stoic man, the comeback made Alistair's blood boil. He snorted. "Your integrity is worse than your sense of direction. Have you forgotten I was a Warden long _before_ you? Before Caoilainn, even." Tightening his fist, Alistair smiled to calm himself.

An annoyed chuckle came from Nathaniel. He shifted his weight on his feet and crossed his arms. "Need I remind you that you left the Wardens to serve as King after you claimed your glory? You are a waste of our resources on this mission."

"Right. Leave it to a Howe to usurp another man's authority. Another man's status." _His wife._ With just enough self-control, the two words didn't leave Alistair's mouth. "Your father taught you _so_ well."

Nathaniel took a deep breath and stretched his exhale. The hint of a frustrated smirk pulled at his lips. "Truly, I have never met a man with such effective sniveling. She should be here, but your childish wailing got her to leave the Wardens. So keep whining, Alistair. You always seem to get your way."

With a sarcastic laugh, Alistair pressed his palms together and glanced at the sky. "Thank the bloody Maker." A steady, distant wind picked up, drowning out the sounds of their voices. He yelled, "How would you resist the urge to weasel your way back into her bed if she were here?"

Voice raised but expression calm, Nathaniel's brow arched. "She sought my bed, your majesty. Every time. And I couldn't blame her, considering her alternative." Standing straighter, Nathaniel made their height difference more pronounced. "Apparently, you aren't half the man I am."

Anger boiling, face hot, a dizzy, rage-filled rush filled Alistair's head. "Man?" He sounded a single, snide and patronizing laugh. "More like a traitorous little archer boy failing to live up to his daddy's sick potential. Caoilainn _begged_ me to take her back, repeatedly, in so many ways. It _is_ good to be the King."

A quiet snort left Nathaniel's nose; his smirk tightened. "Keep telling yourself that. Does she call my name when you sleep with her?"

Alistair made a small step toward Nathaniel, his hand flexing, skin crawling. A burst of dust and sand surrounded them; it forced Alistair to shield his eyes and look down. He cursed it for giving him an inconvenient chance to think through his temper. _The Warden Commander is just trying to get a rise out of me._ When the wind passed, Alistair retorted, "Trust me, you're the last thing on her mind."

"Not for long. A ginger king with a black-haired child won't go well in court, will it?" Nathaniel's lip curled. "She'll come crawling back to me, your majesty. She always does. Because you're a sad, sobbing bastard no one can stand, especially not Caoilainn."

Time slowed.

Alistair's fist tightened, harder this time. Back tensed, shoulders widened, the persistent pounding of blood echoed in his ears, muting the wind beating against him. The smug face of the snake before him beckoned impaling, and for the briefest moment, the option to walk away appeared at the front of Alistair's mind and vanished. Succumbing to the instinct to lunge forward and strike, he did.

Alistair drove his fist into Nathaniel's face. Realizing Alistair's move a moment too late, Nathaniel failed to block the hit. He grunted, head going straight back as he stumbled. Regaining his footing, Nathaniel lightly pressed against his nose. Droplets of blood pooled at both nostrils.

The single punch did not appease the decade of contempt Alistair held toward the man. The disgraceful lies Nathaniel had spat, all intended to rile Alistair worked. Too well. Alistair railed another punch before Nathaniel could recover, this time in the gut. But Nathaniel rebounded with his own clenched palm into Alistair, landing haphazardly in his face. Alistair hissed, tasting his own blood.

The Warden Commander kneed the King's midsection. Groaning, Alistair spat a sticky mixture of blood and dirt and then powered back, driving his shoulder into Nathaniel's waist. But Nathaniel bowed in, meeting Alistair's weight with his own.

Sweat dripped down Alistair's forehead; the kicked up sand burned his eyes. His force pushed Nathaniel a few paces back. Nathaniel's long arms gave advantage; he landed a few throws into Alistair's sides before Alistair used his momentum to push Nathaniel away.

Nathaniel fell forward to his knee a few steps from Alistair, gasping for air. "You fight… like… a Chantry boy."

Eyes fixated on Nathaniel, Alistair took a moment to breathe, refusing to lose focus. He needed this; he had waited far too long.

Not giving Nathaniel a chance to stand, Alistair charged him, kneeing the Warden Commander in the face. Nathaniel's mangled garble pleased Alistair, but the satisfaction was short-lived. Nathaniel stood, face bloodied, eyes wide with rage. He grabbed Alistair's shirt and smashed his forehead into Alistair's head.

Head dizzy, vision blurred, Alistair could not defend against the round of punches Nathaniel threw at him, all landing with enough force on his face and belly. The final knocked him down.

Alistair kicked his booted foot into Nathaniel's leg, unwilling to let the fight end that easily. Nathaniel tripped and fell forward.

Alistair's face throbbed with swollen wounds and his racing heart amplified the heat, but he refused to forfeit this opportunity. He continued.

Templar training had given him enough techniques to immobilize enemies without the use of lyrium. Rolling over to his stomach, Alistair crawled in the sand. Nathaniel Howe pushed one hand against the ground to stand. But Alistair interrupted, wrapping an arm around Nathaniel's waist and bringing him to his back.

Straddling the Warden Commander, Alistair smirked at the damage he had caused. Nathaniel deepened his frown; bruises were forming on his face but his proud chin lifted with disdain.

Tired, breathless, clothes loose and covered in dust, the King wiped the blood from his mouth. "At least… I don't…fight… like a prick."

Swinging his arm back in a wide arch, Alistair growled. Before the punch could land Nathaniel threw his weight and used his shoulder to roll Alistair over. The pair wrestled in the building storm around them.

What sounded like distant voices faded in the wind; Alistair assumed it was Philippa or Fiona calling for them to stop, or Hawke and Hale urging them to continue. But Alistair ignored them all. Barely able to see, what was in front of him, he only recognized the muscular limbs of his opponent tangling with his own as both struggled to stay upright.

Both threw their punches when they had the chance, some landing, others not, their vision completely hampered by the bellowing wind. Torn clothes revealed more skin to the needle-like pinches of sand. It hurt to breathe, requiring both to take short shallow breaths through the stifled air as they wrestled, until they both landed side by side on their backs, coughing up the sand from the back of their throats.

Alistair pulled his cowl over his mouth and nose so he could breathe; Nathaniel did the same.

"Are you... done yet?" Nathaniel's voice called through the cloud of dust.

After an inhale through his cloth, Alistair replied, "Do you give up?"

Not receiving an answer from the other man, Alistair sensed Nathaniel crawling on his knees toward a shadowy object in the distance- the rocks they had climbed earlier. Alistair followed, keeping his eyes shielded from the violent blasts and only stopping to breathe when needed. Locating the leeward side of the rock, they took shelter.

Alistair waited with his mouth covered, suspecting the Warden Commander did the same at his side. Minutes stretched on, the threatening sounds of wind beating against the rock echoed in Alistair's ears. He nearly dozed off in the oppressive blaring and darkness, but just as he did, Nathaniel's elbow nudged him.

Blasting wind faded to breezy gusts; Alistair opened his eyes. Sunlight shone again, and the dust settled, revealing the direction of the cavern. Eyes still burning and irritated by the light struggled to focus. A few indiscernible figures walked toward Alistair and Nathaniel.

"If you arse-biscuits are done fucking around, we can move now." Hale, Alistair determined, by the sound of her voice and her lanky shadow. She extended a hand to Nathaniel to help him stand.

"Their clothes are still on and they weren't even cuddling." The other figure, Hawke, looked toward Hale. "Looks like I owe you ten silver." Reaching out, Hawke pulled Alistair to stand up, wrapping his arm around Hawke's shoulders for support.

Snickering, Hale put her arm around Nathaniel's waist, helping him stay upright as they walked back to the cave.

Every muscle in Alistair's body felt sore, beaten. Clothes caked with sweat and dust hung heavy on his limbs. When he looked to his side, he observed Nathaniel in a similar state, trudging in the sand, barely able to keep his balance if not for the help of Hale.

They reached the cavern and Alistair chuckled to himself.

Hawke leaned to look at Alistair and smiled, snickering with him. "Something funny, your majesty?"

"Caoilainn is going to kill me." _But I won._ Alistair thought to himself. The child was Alistair's, of that, he was certain, and he doubted Nathaniel's desire for Caoilainn. But Alistair had egged on Nathaniel enough to relinquish his stoicism and lie. Though neither Alistair nor Nathaniel defeated the other in combat, Alistair claimed his own victory.

" _If_ you tell her." Hawke tilted his head and winked, just before he passed Alistair to the other women. Hale did the same with Nathaniel. Philippa and Fiona gathered potions and balms to tend to the bruised and bloodied men's wounds.

"Don't heal 'em too much." Hale hollered, picking up her bow and wrapping her cowl. "Leave 'em a good sodding reminder of their fucking wankery."

Holding his staff in one hand, Hawke extended the other to let Hale leave the cavern first. He looked over his shoulder on the way out. "We'll be back with dinner."

* * *

**Author's note: Thank you all again so much for letting me know. For those that comment as guests, I wish I could reply to you! So I'll say thank you here instead.


	14. Grief

_24, Firstfall 9:42_

 _C,_

 _This is torture. Literal, Maker ordained torture. It must be penance for sneaking meals from Redcliffe, because this is unbelievable. Have I ever told you I hate Nathaniel Howe? The more I see his smug face the more I want to punch it._

 _I should have never come. They could have figured this out without me. It's selfish, but I'm jealous you got to stay. Funny, really. I was jealous of you staying with the Order too. I didn't want to lead our group around Ferelden, let alone a whole country. But now I'm here with the Wardens and you're in the palace._

 _Interestingly enough, when you left, I discovered I was better at leading the kingdom than either of us thought possible. Crazy, isn't it?_

 _Do you really think I didn't consider being with others while you were gone? I did. So many times the opportunity presented itself. But I couldn't bring myself to do that. I wanted to prove you wrong, to show that I was enough._

 _I'm sorry, I'm rambling. You'd have liked Cumberland. We should come back some time when you have healed. I wish I was there with you._

 _We're leaving Nevarra City tomorrow. I'll write again once we get to Tevinter._

 _-A_

* * *

Morning routines occurred as usual, and in the last week, Caoilainn found more energy. Motivated to wake before dawn, unburdened by grogginess, she cared for herself, taking her time to brush her hair, dress, and journal. Even her morning sickness had lessened in severity, sometimes subsiding at mild nausea without the need for tonics.

At mealtime, her preferences for food had become more selective and focused on a constant craving for salt. The kitchen staff obliged her requests, adjusting to her needs. Each day followed suit, broken apart my small lulls in activity where her mind wandered to Alistair where fears loomed at the end of each thought. She hadn't received another letter from him in a week.

Sometimes reluctantly, she sought conversations with her visitors and staff to avoid thinking about Alistair. But most times, responsibilities kept the others in the palace busy until dinner and Caoilainn often found herself with nothing to do besides reflect on Alistair or her work from earlier that day. In an effort to busy her mind, she had found a new responsibility and application of her energy. She changed her clothes and headed to the smithy.

* * *

 _A Week Prior_ _  
_

 _As usual, Caoilainn's meetings finished for the day. She ate a quick lunch and returned to her office. With no other work to occupy her time, she read the few letters she had received that morning over again, Alistair's for the fifth time. The words glared at her, his hurt and pain and anger loud, abrasive, robbing her of an ability to respond. She could not scold Nathaniel or console Alistair from Denerim. Instead, she threw the letter back on her desk and sat back in her chair._

 _She sighed, frustrated, helpless. Morrigan's blunt advice for Caoilainn to care for herself and release expectation of Alistair though helpful, failed to give hope. Caoilainn sighed, and in a moment of silence, she remembered a conversation that morning with Adalyn about the Royal Army's equipment. Grateful for the distraction Caoilainn left her office to visit the_

 _Within the confines of the palace, constructed with stone in an outer hallway, Caoilainn reached the blacksmith. She had visited since returning to the palace, each time entranced by the blue and orange flames blazing inside the forge, and high heat billowing from the workspace. Same as the last time, tables covered in partially made weapons and armor stretched around the oven. Clanking echoed as the blacksmith pounded a metal hammer against an iron rod on an anvil, still glowing hot and orange._

 _She watched, fascinated with the persistent hammering. The iron's orange hue deepened to red and the blacksmith moved the rod back to the forge and pumped air into the furnace to liven the fire.  
_ _  
_ _Stepping closer, Caoilainn spoke over the hissing sound of the bellow inflating and deflating. "Lora, do you have a moment? I need to talk to you about refitting the army with new equipment."_

 _The blacksmith looked over her shoulder in annoyance, but when she spotted Caoilainn the woman's brows furrowed. "Yer majesty," she released the bellow and moved the iron to a corner of the forge away from the flames. The woman turned around, curvy, dressed in a heavy apron with long sleeve undershirt. She removed her gloves, tucked them into a pocket, and bowed her head. "Forgive me. Didn't realize it was you."_

 _With a polite smile, Caoilainn shook her head. "There's no need. Is this for my army?"_

 _The blacksmith tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from her braid behind her ear and nodded. "It is. I know they're... waiting. I'd have more of it finished but my... striker's in South Reach with his family. I'm working on my own." As Lora hurried to explain, she reached to the table beside her to move around the armor pieces._

 _Pauses in Lora's speech suggested purposeful restraint from cursing. Caoilainn lifted her hand for Lora to stop. "I hear you. What do you need to do your work?"_

 _Lora failed to stifle a bitter laugh; she held out her palms. "Can you give me another pair of hands?"_

 _Bunching her lips, Caoilainn glanced over the tables. Armor pieces waited for someone to decorate them with Fereldan heraldry, followed by the final step of connecting them with chainmail, leather, and fabric._

 _Caoilainn's eyes returned to Lora. Braided brown hair filled with streaks of grey reached down her back, and deeply set wrinkles surrounded her eyes and mouth. Each time Caoilainn met the woman since becoming the army's commander, she found a tired but determined blacksmith hard at work._

 _"I'll help." Caoilainn's eyes met Lora's gaze. "I have time each day when my meetings are over. I'd like to contribute."_

 _Eyebrows creasing, frown deepening, Lora sighed. "Yer Majesty, I can't ask that of you."_

 _"You didn't ask. I offered. I'm sure you know I'm pregnant but I believe I can still be of use." Caoilainn crossed her arms over her chest._

 _"It innit that at all." Shaking her head, Lora put a hand on her hip. Her other hand came to her forehead. "I've had four children since I started smithing and haven't missed more'n a month of work the whole time. That's 20 years now." Lora looked at Caoilainn sheepishly from under her hand. "Forgive me, Queen Caoilainn, but… apprentices are work."_

 _Startled by this information, Caoilainn couldn't help but laugh. "I'm a quick learner, and I have plenty of experience with weapons and armor."_

 _"I s'pose it's true." Lora gave a pensive look into the forge's fire, and then returned her gaze to Caoilainn. "Right then. Can you help me now with these pauldrons? We'll start easy today before we get you in a right apron tomorrow."_

 _Nodding, Caoilainn walked through the workplace to a table and pulled up a stool. She spent the afternoon hammering rivets to connect the layers of armor._

* * *

Each day since then, Caoilainn returned to the smithy to help Lora. Interested in testing her ability and expanding her experience in this line of work, Caoilainn slowly picked up new tasks as Lora taught her, hammering swords while the blacksmith heated other projects. Caoilainn took on whatever she was within her scope of ability, serving as Lora's direct assistant.

When left to work on her own, Lora insisted Caoilainn improve hammering before she advanced to other chores. The work bored her and demanded her body in different ways than combat. It required focus but precision came easier more quickly than she anticipated. As she recognized the use of muscles similar to wielding blades, it came easier.

A week into her apprenticeship, Lora taught the basic steps of gilding, allowing Caoilainn to embellish gold mabari into the armor, the sigil for the army's kingdom, and their king. The work called for Caoilainn's utmost attention to details as she applied stencils. A mask covered her face as she worked, not breathing in the fumes of the gold mixture, and leaving burning off the excess for Lora when she returned.

Lit lanterns provided plenty of light as the sunlight faded. Though Lora had left for the night, Caoilainn continued the work, wanting to finish spreading the gold amalgam over a breastplate. Quiet and contemplative, she noticed the curious features of the creature's lolling tongue and tiny claws.

It was bittersweet. The mabari reminded Caoilainn of her fealty, her service, and even in their distance, her poor standing with the King. She set down the breastplate and sighed to herself, putting her hand on her belly. Returning questions of Alistair's safety surfaced. She sighed as the fear Nathaniel only adding salt to the wounds in her and Alistair's relationship multiplied her worry. The sting of tears made her blink.

Recent emotions oscillated quicker than Caoilainn could comprehend. Anger spiked from mild annoyance and vanished to loneliness. When she thought of Alistair, guilt and shame joined genuine longing jumbled with love and desire. She missed him, even in his resentment.

The onset of tears indicated the need for her to stop working. Caoilainn packed her things and organized the smithy according to Lora's preferences, leaving behind the smith's apron and gloves she had worn that day. Finally, she washed up and headed into the palace.

She noticed her stomach growling the moment she walked inside, smelling the scents of dinner permeating from the kitchens. Glancing down at her attire, Caoilainn considered changing. Dinner in the palace obligated an assumed formality, even without visiting leaders or anyone to impress. But hunger gnawed at her belly and impatience won. She shrugged and walked to the dining hall to find her brother seated across from her usual chair at the dining table, waiting.

"Her Majesty has arrived…" Fergus' jovial tone matched his smile. The lines around his light brown eyes had deepened over the years, and gray hairs peppered throughout his beard and hair. "... and in smith's clothes no less." He wrinkled his nose.

A thick, long-sleeved dress covered her body, sweat-soaked and blackened from her time near the forge, surrounded by smoke. The fabric protected her from the fire and heated metals but failed as appropriate dinner attire.

"I didn't have a chance to change and I was hungry." The defiant edge in Caoilainn's voice grew louder as she spoke. She walked to her chair without sitting. "I am more than capable of eating alone if it bothers you so much."

Fergus laughed and gestured his hand toward her seat. "Please, there's no need. Sit." His speech paused, waiting for Caoilainn to take her seat. "Morrigan is checking on the midwife, and Teagan is gallivanting somewhere in the city. I thought we could use dinner as an opportunity to talk."

With an eye roll, she pulled her chair out and sat down. "I'm listening." She took her napkin from the table, and gave it an excessive shake before placing it on her lap.

"We've both been so busy since I arrived. I'm failing my commitment as your supportive big brother." Fergus' meal already sat at the table, and he cut a piece of meat with his silverware. His index finger made a posh point along the blunt edge of the knife, the result of years of etiquette training.

A moment later, a servant placed Caoilainn's meal down; she smiled and nodded thanks to the young man.

"I can only handle so much support, Fergus." She snorted and made an irritated laugh and picked up her cutlery. "The fact that you're here is plenty."

"Apparently not, Caoilainn." He pointed his fork at her and raised it up and down. "Helping the blacksmith? Morrigan made you stop fighting so you found the next most dangerous thing?"

"Oh, come on," she placed her fork down on her plate. "You're kidding me. It's nothing and Lora is making sure to only assign what I can handle."

Though Caoilainn loathed the notion of a traditional hobby like knitting or embroidery, the safety of her child remained her priority. She communicated this to Lora repeatedly and the other woman respected Caoilainn's concerns. Understanding the experience, Lora helped Caoilainn modify the work and maintain safety.

"I have no doubt, my dearest sister. But it's possible she has a different measure of what's best for the Queen to take on while she's with child. Wouldn't you say?" His concerned eyes looked across the table; he placed his knife and fork down. "You know it's your tendency to take on too much."

Rolling her eyes, Caoilainn shook her head. "Is that somehow worse than you not taking on enough?"

His forehead wrinkled. "What do you mean by that?"

After Oriana and Oren's death, Fergus performed the minimum in his new responsibilities as Teyrn. Based on her infrequent visits to see him over the years, Caoilainn gathered that he distracted himself with hunting parties and occasional balls at Castle Cousland. He had entertained no new potential wives, but she suspected he knew at least a few of his female guests intimately.

"I mean I value your support and well-intended advice, I swear it." She folded her hands over her belly in a protective nature and looked down before meeting his eyes. "But you have little room to give me advice on how to move on."

Startled, the muscles on Fergus' face went slack until he blinked. "That really doesn't compare, Caoilainn, and you know that."

"It doesn't?" Caoilainn gave an exaggerated shrug to her shoulders. "No, the Wardens were not born of me but for the love of Andraste, I raised them to the army they are now. It was hard for me to leave when I returned to the palace the first time and even harder to abandon them now."

The harsh loss of her army and the end of her friendship with Nathaniel Howe had created complicated emotions. Mourning and anger with Alistair, and in the distance from her decision to leave them, she found herself at ease. That part of her life had ended when she died. Discovering herself with Alistair's child answered her questions about her life without the Order, including Nathaniel.

A long moment passed and Fergus sat in silence. Caoilainn watched, waiting to hear him reply. He picked his fork back up. "We should eat our dinner before it gets cold."

"Ferg," she reached across the table with her hand palm up, open, "it's not the same. I know it. I'm not trying to say it is."

"I know." The dazed look in his eye faded as he gave a faint smile, took her hand and squeezed. "I'm here to support you, remember?"

She ignored his deflection and squeezed back, seeking his gaze with empathetic eyes. His amber eyes belied the pain he tried to hide.

His nose twitched and he sniffed, letting go of her hand. "I shouldn't have left."

Caoilainn knew what he meant, referencing when Rendon Howe's treachery set Castle Cousland into chaos. Vivid memories of Oren and Oriana laying dead, and the unprotected position in which she left her parents still played in her mind. She did not wish those memories upon anyone.

"It wouldn't have changed anything." Her soothing tone gave a bittersweet reply. "Howe had too many men. They'd have killed you too."

"I'd gladly have given my life even trying to protect them."

 _I know._ Caoilainn recalled that day on the battlefield in the Arbor Wilds where she gave her life for Alistair. Desperate for redemption, to prove her loyalty to him, she risked everything. Her decision was inconsiderate, impulsive, and prideful. To imagine a similar needless end for her brother, his body lying with her sister-in-law and nephew, made Caoilainn's heart ache.

"True as that may be," she paused as her eyes watered, "enough Couslands died that day. Listen to me Fergus. We can honor them all, and you can still start a new life. They know you'll never forget them."

His face contorted, frown pulling downward, forehead wrinkling, and brows knitted. Tears welled in Fergus' eyes and he covered them with the edge of his hand. The only sound he made came from a few long breaths through his nose, but Caoilainn did not interrupt. After a moment, he rubbed his eyes with his fingers, sighed, and looked at her.

A weak grin tugged his lips. "I hope you're happy." The edges of the smile made his watery eyes wrinkle. "Can we eat now?"

Caoilainn nodded, dabbing away her own tears with her napkin before she resumed her meal. "For the Couslands." She lifted her glass and clanked it with Fergus's. Over dinner, they formed plans to memorialize their fallen family when Caoilainn could travel to Castle Cousland with the baby.


	15. Jealousy

Sand found its way into Nathaniel's clothes, even after changing. In his socks, between his toes, the tiny specks itched at his skin. No matter how much he tried to wash it out, it clung to his hair, making it stiff and difficult to braid.

The storm had subsided. Layers of sand covered rocks and reshaped the scenery. Hale and Garrett had returned with a few hares, a surprising catch in the desolate, once blighted land. They cooked while the mages healed Alistair and Nathaniel.

Nathaniel remained silent, following Philippa's directions as she mended him. But his eyes followed Hawke and Hale. The two teased each other with nauseating camaraderie as they skinned their catch and started a fire, unaware or uncaring if anyone witnessed their friendly banter.

Both Alistair and Nathaniel changed out of their torn and dirty attire into cleaner clothes before they ate. Philippa and Fiona kept a private conversation, whispering to each other while making eye contact around the room. Worse, Alistair hummed a nerve-wracking song to himself as he ate. Nathaniel swore he caught the other man grinning on more than one occasion. The irritating tune was only interrupted by Hale's bursts of laughter as she listened to Hawke telling stories about his drunken debauchery in Kirkwall. It all made Nathaniel's blood boil.

As soon as he finished eating, he gritted his teeth and stood. "There's enough daylight to continue. Let's go." He ordered to the group, and they followed his direction, finishing up their meals.

Nathaniel realized he had a limp as he set forth. Stabs of pain bolted up his leg, and he hissed, climbing the rocky parts of the plains. Potions and spells had healed his minor injuries. Still broken, his nose had stopped bleeding, and though his major bruises had vanished, he remained sore. The mages decided to reserve their mana, and none wished to waste potions on the men's petty injuries.

Alistair looked similar. Most of his wounds had healed, aside from some bruises. The way he maneuvered in his armor suggested his body ached. But somehow, the pain managed to lift his mood. The King laughed with the mages and between jovial conversation, he walked in contemplative silence without straying from the group. His bitterness from before the fight had faded.

Nathaniel grumbled wordlessly to himself. Every time Alistair laughed it pulled Nate from his thoughts, already angry, worsened by the interruption. Over and over as the day continued, Nathaniel observed the King's gaiety, his perfectly white teeth reflecting sunlight from where he walked a few feet ahead. Nate scowled at the sight, certain Alistair's self-satisfied humor had spurred from successfully instigating Nathaniel.

 _Because Alistair always succeeds._

 _The son of the great King Maric, Alistair Theirin, the hero; he who rose from nothing, rescued the kingdom from certain peril, and assumed his rightful seat on the throne, just as his father before him._

Nothing like Nathaniel. Born into nobility, then marked a pariah, Nathaniel suffered for the sins of his father- the traitor who abused his wife and children, and all aspects of his authority. His father's treachery haunted Nathaniel, but it provoked humility. He craved no power over other men; his only act of treason against the throne occurred when he slept with Caoilainn. It did not compare to his father's misdeeds and provided Nate with no personal gains.

 _Alistair takes too much for granted._ His bloated ego spawned entitlement, a demand for respect when he had done little to earn it aside from incessant whining. It only supported evidence that the victory over the archdemon had occurred at Caoilainn's hands, and Alistair only took advantage of her gallantry.

Yet, he won the love of his country and convinced Caoilainn to marry him. Her attraction to a man who would gain so much pleasure from petty arguments and brutish behavior eluded him.

No matter the disdain Nathaniel held toward the King, it bothered Nate most that he gave in to the provocation. He had spewed words he did not intend, confident they would infuriate Alistair. The satisfaction quickly faded as the brawl ensued, and regret overcame Nate as soon as it ended.

He had unwittingly given Alistair the upper hand for the rest of the journey. Though Nathaniel held no jealousy for the King and Queen's pregnancy, nor longing for Caoilainn's company in Nate's bed, he remained bitter about her abandonment of the order and the unique friendship they had cultivated. And now that Alistair knew, he had leverage.

Nathaniel cringed at the bad taste in his mouth, and he glanced beside him to Hale. Looking the other direction, Hale was distracted by Hawke. She had ignored Nathaniel since they returned with their catch, instead entertaining herself with Hawke's antics and endless prattling. The pair seemed to enjoy insulting each other between competitive boasting.

Another streak of jealousy ran through Nathaniel, strengthening as Hale and Hawke's friendship grew. Knowing the caustic young woman's personality too well, expressing concern would only incite an argument. He bit his tongue and diverted his attention.

Blue skies and quiet air made navigation simple; the wind had subsided since the last sandstorm, suggesting temporary safety from another tempest.

Pulling their horses as they walked North, Fiona and Alistair listened to one of Philippa's lectures. Her free hand circled in the air, dramatizing her speech, and whenever it wasn't swirling, she planted it on her hip. The other two watched her, passing side glances to one another, muting their humor with Philippa's passionate speech.

Nathaniel followed the motion of her hand, half annoyed and half interested, only hearing fragments of Philippa's sentences. Until at one point, she drew magic and a flame erupted in her palm and then vanished.

Nathaniel frowned and cleared his throat.

"Philippa," he spoke over the sorceress, and she looked at him with a wrinkled brow, "aren't you supposed to be saving your mana?"

"What are you talking about, Nathaniel dear?" She put her hand back on her hip. "That hardly used any of my stores and if need be, we have lyrium."

A wave of anger washed down the back of his neck. Nathaniel creased his brow. "If we have enough lyrium then why do I have to continue walking with a limp?" He gestured his hand to his nose. "Why is my nose still broken?" He recognized the misdirected resentment seeping out of his rigid tone. The smirk of the King standing beside her widened in response to Nate's questions, stirring more anger from the Warden Commander.

"Nathaniel," Philippa leaned her head to the side and pursed her lips, "that's not how spells work, dear. Healing wounds like that would take much more magic than summoning a flame."

Nate clenched his jaw. "Commander. You will call me Commander. Be mindful of your use of magic in case we need it."

"Yes, Commander." Philippa laughed; her eyes scanned Nathaniel up and down. "Of course, I'll be more careful about how _I_ exert _my_ power… since our party is currently reliant upon its mages."

Through Nathaniel's periphery, he noticed Alistair's smile lessen and his brow furrowed. Nate stretched out his inhale and tightened his lips before replying, "Thank you, Philippa."

The woman gave an exaggerated smile. "My pleasure, Nathaniel dear."

"Damn it!" Nate threw down the reins of his horse and stopped; the creature's gait slowed but it kept walking. Hale huffed beside him and stopped too, stepping back to observe.

Pointing at Philippa, Nate continued, "That's it. We'll set up camp here. You'll have first watch tonight. No, the rest of the mission. If you cannot address me appropriately, I will add to those consequences."

He sighed, looking to see how far his horse had wandered, but another voice interrupted. "Oi!" Hale handed her horse's reins to Hawke and stormed toward Nate. When she stopped right in front of him, she puffed up her chest, unintimidated despite their height difference. She pushed her finger into Nate's chest and nodded her head toward Philippa. The sorceress had crossed her arms but remained silent.

Hale's voice raised. "She's always called you Nathaniel, mate. If you didn't like it, why'd you bring her on this sodding trip then?" She pressed her finger even harder into his chest. "Stop being an arse and tell us where we're s'pose to go. Then we can all get the hell out of this shitehole before another fuckin' storm starts."

The vehement confrontation from the young woman surprised Nathaniel when compared to her recent detachment. He watched, unmoving until she finished. _She's right._ The admission stung, but he refused to react, not willing to reveal his agreement. He straightened his posture and his frown sank deeper.

A sound distracted him and he glanced past Hale to see Hawke. The man covered his mouth with his hand trying to hide his grin, apparently entertained by Hale's small tirade. The rest of the group had stopped a few paces further.

Nathaniel clenched and released his hand, glancing back to Hale. "I need to speak with you alone."

"Oh, thank the Maker!" Alistair yelled from where he stood near his horse.

With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, Hale gave an annoyed and defeated shrug.

Nodding his head toward a boulder well out of earshot of the group, he waited for Hale to walk first. Nate followed, leaving the other group members to set up their tents. The early stages of the setting sun cast orange hues from the horizon behind them. They walked in silence toward the darkness, approaching dusk made the air cooler.

"Hale…" Nate grumbled as they rounded the large rock.

"What, Nate?" Coming to a stop, Hale turned around and threw her arms up before crossing them. "What's there to talk about?"

Hale stood between him and the boulder, the evening shadows stretching over them both. Without wind to mute their conversation, her voice carried through the flat terrain. Nathaniel frowned.

Calm, composed, Nathaniel ordered, "Stand down."

Navigating the balance between a relationship with the other Warden and giving her orders as Commander remained a work in progress. But the strides they had made in the month since she returned to the Keep regressed with her outburst.

"Me, stand down?" She made a wry laugh. "You hearing yourself? You just fought the whoreson king over his own bloody wife, and you want me to stand down?"

 _She's jealous._ He concluded the meaning of her jab and sighed. "This is beyond Caoilainn at this point. You should know that."

Hale's voice shook and she pointed at him. "You egged him on, Nate! Couldn't hear it, but I saw the look on your face. I knew it was about her. People don't fight like that for nothing."

"Alistair would not stop. What else was I supposed to do?" He felt his cheeks reddening as his tone escalated. Nathaniel's muscles tightened, shoulders widening in defense against Hale's accusations. "Put up with him following me around like a bratty child? I'd had it with him-"

Hale cut him off, her voice rising over his. "You could've told him to bugger off! That's the Nate I know. Not this pissy little prat wingeing about his title, letting some dumb fuck get to you." She took a breath, and Nate waited for her to finish. "Just fess up to it. You miss being on her fucking leash." Her breath hitched and she swallowed.

Blinking, Nate released a held breath, a knot settled in his stomach. Relief for her misunderstanding contradicted regret for conveying an inaccurate message. "Damn it, Hale."

She lifted her chin. "Yeah. Tell me I'm wrong."

"Is this what you've been thinking this whole time?" Careful steps took him closer to her; he shook his head.

He recognized the self-doubt in her aggression and related. Inadequacy rooted in jealousy, the new sensation he experienced in droves since Caoilainn left the Wardens, peaking when he watched Hale flirting with Hawke. Nathaniel suspected Hale, like him, lacked insight on the emotion, and her confidence in broaching the subject matched his own. Neither had spoken their concerns to the other.

Stubborn and sheepish, her eyes looked down and her frown morphed into an angry pout. She shrugged.

"You are wrong, my lady." Close enough to touch her shoulders, he took caution as he grasped her. When she eased into his touch, he murmured, "I don't _love_ Caoilainn. I respect her; I valued my friendship with her. I'm angry with her for putting me in this position." His gaze wandered as his frustration rose, and when he returned his eyes to Hale, he noticed she still stared downcast. Nate lifted her chin until her reluctant gaze faced him. "I have only ever loved you."

She inhaled, brow creasing to a glare as her weight leaned on one leg. With his thumb, Nathaniel brushed specks of sand from her cheek, and with a sigh, Hale's entire body relaxed. Her head rested in his palm and he bowed his head, meeting her lips with his.

Relief washed over him, grateful for her presence and the willing reciprocation of affection after the stressful events of the day. The tension between them vanished. Mouths opened, and her tongue met his, gently sliding, inviting him into her mouth. He considered it acceptance of his apology and declaration of love. Summoning more, her dry lips clung to the ebb of their kiss.

A whine escaped her when he pulled away; he could not prevent his smirk. He wanted her, and her eagerness only encouraged desire. Stepping closer, forgetting about the pain in his leg, he forced her to walk backward until she reached the rock. He leaned in for another kiss, and she welcomed him, allowing him to trap her against the boulder. Nathaniel indulged and Hale matched his pace; slow and steady kissing became frantic in the shadows of the boulder.

The lovely creature's hands roamed, crawling under his shirt to feel his stomach. Nate hummed, appreciating her warm and familiar touch. Her hurried digits loosened the laces of his pants, eager to free him from his leather confines. Obliging the Huntress, he stroked her hair as he studied the determined look on her face. The Huntress seemed to have no concern for the dry and sandy quality of her hair. Plans for pinning her back to the rocky wall played at the forefront of his mind. He smiled.

Dusk loomed closer, red-orange fading into the distance as the sun retired. Insects chirped nearer

Urgent and enthralled, she wrapped her hand around his half-hard member. Losing focus, he groaned. But as he acclimated, his fingers tightened, tugging her hair, tilting her head and exposing her neck. Gasping, Hale complied, balancing herself with her free hand on his arm as Nate leaned in. His teeth grazed the soft, tan skin of her throat, and then he bit down. She growled under her breath, pleasured; her hands gave an involuntary squeeze. Her head pulled against the tension of her hair, muscles stiffening as he tightened his teeth before releasing.

She prepared her attack, and after enough time with the Huntress, he could predict her next motions. A gentle bend to her knees, the shifted her weight to the balls of her feet, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

The dull pain in his leg returned, reminding him that he could not successfully carry another person.

"Wait," Nate whispered before she jumped on him. "I can't. Not now."

Body retracting, Hale released him and held her arms up. "Fuck me. What?"

"I want to, but I'm not fully healed." He leaned in and kissed her ear, but Hale pulled her head away. "We'll continue this once we get our tent set. I promise."

The sandy terrain abolished all fantasies of laying down outside. He stepped back, giving Hale more room as he adjusted himself and tightened the laces of his pants.

He glanced up to catch Hale rolling her eyes and staring off into the distance. She did not reply to him.

Assumptions of her shifted attention overpowered his rational thinking. "Hale… what's between you and Garrett?" He regretted the question immediately, chastising himself. _Really, Nate?_

Hale's eyes darted to him, brows knitting in concern, but she shifted on her feet. "You still being daft? Nothing is."

 _Yet._ Her answer did not mean much to either of them, and she stood in silence as he considered his reply. Something burned in his chest, growing from jealousy, urging him to ask further. "Do you want to sleep with him?"

She laughed, her eyes widening in disbelief. "Fuck all, Nate. That ain't yer sodding business."

"So you do want to sleep with him. I shouldn't be surprised." He snorted, shaking his head. The young woman's age explained her immaturity and indiscrimination. He raised his palm to his forehead.

"Fuck you!" She balled her fist and turned to walk away, shaking the anger from her hands. With a few steps from him, she swung around. "I haven't ploughed him... since it matters to you so much!"

Nate nodded slowly; his jaw sore from clenching his teeth. He stood still and spoke louder than his usual murmur so she would hear. "But would you?"

Bending at the waist, she screamed, "Shite's sake! Get yer head out of yer sodding arse!" Her arms extended to him and she tightened her fists. "You fucking dumped me at Skyhold like it was nothing. I've only been back a month and now you're arse up about commitment and getting married. Slow the fuck down." She stomped her foot in the sand.

"You know this has nothing to do with getting married." Aware she changed the subject, Nate leaned back and looked toward the sky.

"You don't own me, Nate!"

Cheeks hot, he took a deep breath, unable to quell the heat spreading from his chest to the rest of his body. "Damn it, Hale! I just don't want you to sleep with him!"

His eyes watered. Shallow inhales released in quick and heavy sighs. He had understood her desire for Damia; a woman offered Hale a connection he could not provide. But the idea of Hale with another man, on top of him, her lips touching him, moaning for him all made Nathaniel's skin crawl.

"Right. That's it." Sneering, Hale's voice rumbled as she stepped near him again. She pointed at him then toward their camp. "'Cause you don't want the same thing to happen to you as you did to King Arse Face, innit? So this _is_ about her. Just like everything." She clenched her jaw making her cheek pulse; tears pooled in her eyes. "Fuck this. I'm done."

Hale turned on her feet and walked away.

A heavy weight settled on Nate's chest as he watched her fade into last red remnants of the sunset. "This isn't right," he mumbled to himself, staring into the darkness as it surrounded him.

Eventually, he walked back to camp, set his tent, and went to bed. Hale did not join him.


	16. Backlash

Dust kicked up with Hale's steps and she tripped, stumbling over a rock. Her sight limited by long shadows in the dusk delayed her senses from their usual sharpness. Fuming, she marched back to the now built camp. Tents surrounded a fire built from wood the group had carried since Nevarra City. A gap in the circle remained for another tent, Nathaniel and Hale. Vacant, waiting for them to build and settle in for the night.

An ache in her chest burned, fiery and livid. Angry tears fell from her cheeks, and she wiped them away before she reached the other travelers. The group had divided rations of stale bread and dried meat between them, eating as they talked. Philippa chattered to Fiona, extravagant waves of her hand illustrating her story. Unspoken, Hawke sat near them but removed, observing.

The scent of seasoned meat made Hale's stomach grumble, having not eaten since their departure after the brawl. She spotted the food in a bag on a rock and made a step toward it, but a bottle in Hawke's hand drew her eyes.

Comfortable, reclined in his makeshift seat, he took a languid sip as the other's talked. Hale watched his mouth. His upper lip created a tight seal within the rim of the bottle, and the lump in his throat bobbed with each slow swallow. She realized he was side-eying her for the briefest moment before he returned his gaze to Philippa, lowering the bottle from his mouth.

Hale took a deep breath, huffed in frustration, and walked past him. Scouring through the bag of food, she took some meat and plopped down across the fire from the mages. Eyes fixed on the flames, she ripped off a bite of meat with her teeth. She wanted to hunt, to pack up her things, grab her bow, and wander off into the dark. The urge pulsed through her veins, like an itch she couldn't scratch.

But the argument with Nate replayed in her mind. It debilitated her, keeping her fixated on him and inhibiting her focus.

' _I just don't want you to sleep with him!'_

She stewed on Nate's words, watching the flames dance as she ate. Reduced to property, Nate's admission confirmed her fears of belonging to another. His talks of commitment, exclusivity and its parallels to marriage alarmed her.

She swallowed her food and thought of her father's last words, a reminder of her mission for independence. " _Ga'sahl vena revis_." ("Always find freedom.")

Hale hadn't noticed Hawke move to sit near her, leaving behind the busy talk of the other two women. "Didn't know you spoke elvish," he remarked.

She inhaled, realizing she had spoken aloud, and moved her glare from the fire to Hawke. "Fuck off."

Chuckling, Hawke took another sip from his bottle. He gave a pleasant sigh as he pulled the drink away. "Your grace and charm continue to astound me. How do you remain so poised in even the most unpleasant conditions?"

Hale ignored him and glanced from Hawke to her belongings. Her drum and her bow waited next to a quiver full of arrows, the darts collected unbroken from the last enemy they fought. A hunt called for her, quiet and solitude in the now vibrant starry night sky. The catch might be small, or even non-existent in the wasteland but the prospective peace of mind made up for it.

But tendrils of anger coiled it's way through any desire for calmness, grasping onto resentment of Nathaniel. She wanted to show the power in her freedom; she wanted revenge.

Her eyes traveled back to Garrett, he had settled into his seat and took another long swig, staring absentmindedly at the sky.

"Gimme that." She pointed to the bottle.

"Uh, no." Hawke's gaze didn't move, but he smiled. He transferred the drink to his other hand, further away from Hale. "I'm not making that mistake twice." The last time he gave Hale a sip of his drink, she downed it all at one time. "Get your own bottle. You can join me while I studiously guard our camp." His head tipped toward his pack.

For the briefest moment, her eyes narrowed at him, but Hawke either didn't see or ignored her. Nate would never be so lethargic on his watch duties, let alone drink alcohol. She scoffed and then stood. The bottles were in a pack resting on the ground near the opening of his tent.

She noticed Hawke's scent first as she entered. Men's cologne tickled her nose, but not the overbearing and sickeningly sweet variety she had smelled on vendors and pimps in Denerim. It was light and musky with faint and lingering notes of amberwood and pomegranate. She liked it.

Reaching inside his pack, Hale stole a glance inside his quarters. A drastic difference from Nathaniel's tent, Hawke had strewn robes of fine fabrics on his bedroll. She wrinkled her brow, puzzled by the excessiveness. Even his bedroll looked expensive, made from what appeared to be a mixture of deep red and purple samite and high-grade cotton.

Hawke's casual tone called from his spot by the fire. "Find something interesting in my tent?"

She swallowed and hurried to grab a bottle, then strolled back to her spot by the fire. "That's a rich man's bedroll. You sure a nobby chap like you is up for hiking across Thedas?"

Hawke pursed his lips and nodded. "I'll take nobby chap as an upgrade from poxy wanker." Leaning back in his seat, he stretched his legs out. "You wouldn't judge me on my selection of bedding if you'd ever slept… or done other things in Vyrantium Samite."

Hawke might have winked, but Hale couldn't tell in the dim light.

She scoffed to hide her blushing. "Don't need a fancy bed to get to sleep. The dirt is good enough if I need it."

"I've never questioned your willingness to get dirty." Hawe grinned at her as he lifted his bottle back to his lips and took a drink. "A nice bed isn't about need or utility. Luxury is about…" He paused, humming to himself and looking into the fire. "It's about indulgence in reward for hard work, giving in to decadence and fulfilling well-deserved fantasies." Hawke's eyes found Hale's. "I'm guessing you've never _really_ been fulfilled."

Grateful for the dim, glowing light of the fire, Hale felt her cheeks burn and thoughts of Nate resurfaced. Their means of indulgence were found in heated arguments and quelled by wild and frenzied trysts. It opposed the calm silence they protected in between. The simplicity of their relationship worked for them, or she thought. The poignant sting in her chest returned.

She cleared her throat and faked a laugh. "The fuck are you talkin' about?" Using her knife, she removed the cork from the bottle, brushing off Hawke's observation.

Hawke's brow lifted and he made a lazy shrug. "Debauchery done right... which I am assuming a fledgling degenerate such as yourself has yet to experience."

Hale rolled her eyes and lifted the bottle of wine to her mouth, smelling the rising fumes as the glass touched her lips. She tilted the bottle, letting the liquid fill her mouth. The wine was strong. Rich, earthy flavor made it easy to swallow the first gulp. Without taking the bottle down, she overpowered the mild burn in her throat with another mouthful of wine, and then another. Exhaling, she pulled the bottle away.

Hawke's head was lifted, his eyes following Hale with interest. "Easy there, mate." He took another drink himself, diverting his gaze from her.

"Ain't yer…" she blurted but stopped. Eyes widening, she watched Nathaniel return to camp. He ignored her, walking past them and to the empty space designated for their tent.

He set his camp further from the ring of others, further from the campfire and from Hale. His deliberate avoidance made her heart pound; angry tears stung her eyes. Unsure if she wanted an apology, a confession, or if she preferred for him to leave her alone, she could only watch. Her nostrils flared.

As Nathaniel built his tent, the other two women stood. Mumbling goodnight to Hawke, Hale, and Nathaniel, they disappeared into their separate tents.

She felt Hawke looking at her, smirking in her periphery. Hawke said, "You know, I've always wanted to ask." He leaned closer to her. "Do you and the Commander consider fighting foreplay?"

Hale bit her lip, eyes still narrowed on Nate. She shook her head, trying to prevent herself from scowling. "Not this time."

Nathaniel disappeared into his now constructed tent and Hale's fingers fumbled around the mouth of the bottle as a distraction. She smiled weakly and looked over to Hawke. He stared back, the campfire providing enough light for her to study his face even under his messy black hair and the beard framing his jaw. His eyes sparkled in the darkness, a fleck of mischief she recognized. It made her stomach tighten.

Shrugging again, Hawke gave a matter-of-fact nod. "Obviously, the best foreplay depends on the mood. Cold shoulders can be such a turn on in the right moment."

Hale's smile widened. Forgiving Hawke's lackluster approach to guarding the camp, she stretched her legs out in front of her. With another long sip of her drink, she exhaled loudly, the knot in her stomach easing. "I'm in the mood to get so smashed I forget I'm in this fucking desert."

Hawke lifted his bottle to Hale and chuckled. "Now that's a mood I can get behind."

This time, Hale clearly distinguished Hawke's wink. She giggled, mirroring his bottle with her own. In unison, they drank long swigs. Hale hummed, a thought coming to mind as she pulled the bottle away.

"What is it?" Hawke asked as she stood and walked to her belongings. She ignored her bow and quiver, and instead grabbed her drum with her free hand. She returning to her spot in the sand.

"Brilliant idea." Hawke rubbed his hands together. "Let's prevent the camp from sleeping and see how mad they'll be in the morning."

"Nah," Hale said through a giggle, strumming the fingers of her free hand on her the hide of her drum, "just keeping my hands busy." Just as the tingling effects of the alcohol spread over her head, Hale winked at Hawke this time.

"Too easy." Hawke made a playful frown and shook his head. "I'm leaving that one right where it is."

Her stomach fluttered. The longer she looked at him the more she appreciated Hawke's features. This close, she could see the tiredness in his eyes. It opposed the wrinkles on his face, smile lines reflecting his pervasive humor.

She set her bottle down in the sand. With free hands her fingers thrummed, toying with the crackling of the fire as inspiration for rhythm. After a moment, she returned to casual tapping.

"Don't be dumb." She looked from Hawke to her fingers, angling her hand to strike the drum with the heel of her palm. Focused, fiery, she returned her gaze to him. "Thought you were gonna… what's it? Right, yeah... Fulfill me."

Her brow arched, and she grabbed her bottle from the ground without breaking her stare.

The whites of Hawke's teeth flashed in the firelight as he laughed. "I have been told I can be quite fulfilling."

She couldn't help her grin from widening, even as she rolled her eyes. She held up her bottle. "You ain't off to a good start. This shite's cheap and mine's almost empty."

"Excuse me. It's moderately priced wine and there's more." Hawke nodded to his tent where the bag of wine lay.

She snickered to herself as she stood, taking her drum with her. She returned to Hawke's tent, peeking another look at the interior as she reached for another bottle of wine. She set her drum down.

"In exchange for the free drinks," Hawke spoke over the fire so she could hear, "would you be so kind as to bring-"

Standing in the open flap of Hawke's tent, Hale held the full bottle to her side, opening up her shirt with her other hand. "Come get it yourself."

A knot in her stomach twisted. Nervous guilt made her hand shake, and she clenched her fist, noticing sweaty palms. Her heart raced as she waited. _Fuck Nate for being an arse._ She reminded herself of her freedom to do what and who she wanted without the restraint of a relationship. Curling her finger, she gestured for Hawke to come.

Hawke didn't move at first. His narrowing eyes watched her, and he smirked as if measuring Hale with amusement. He put one ankle up on his knee

"Ain't good at waiting, fuck face." Hale's hand planted on her hip. "If you want it, come get it."

He covered his mouth with the edge of his hand, hiding his smile. "Are we still talking about the wine?"

"What d'you think?" She put a hand on her hip and cocked it to one side.

After swallowing a laugh, Hawke rose and strolled to her, reaching for the bottle she extended. He uncorked it and handed it back, then reached down and grabbed another for himself. If he was even the slightest bit drunk, Hale couldn't tell; and if he knew Hale was using him to get back at Nate, Hawke didn't care.

Voice lowered, he leaned down to her. His face was only a breath away from hers, and she could smell the light scents of his cologne again mixed with his sweat. He whispered in her ear, the words ominous in his bemused tone. "I don't take orders well. If you want it then say so."

Her nerves tingled, and she turned around, watching him walk into the tent. Anger and arousal already heightened by drink sparked at his whisper. After taking a large mouthful of wine, she continued unfastening her shirt with one hand. Whatever trepidation she had toward ploughing the Champion disappeared. _This'll be good._

Hawke chuckled and sat down on his colorful bedroll, his back propped up by pillows fluffier than the one she used, the one designated to her in Nate's tent.

Hawke lit a candle in a votive holder. "I love when my irresistibility makes women's clothes fall off, but I think you need a lesson in leisure. Slow down, Hale. Enjoy the drink."

The direction to slow down was challenging to comprehend. In Hale's history of drunken sexual encounters, heated tangles with bar patrons started standing and moved to whatever flat surface was available; with men and women whose names she hadn't even bothered to ask or remember, she had never considered slowing down. Nate had the willingness to meet her energy with his own; their passionate interactions could go on all night.

And now, the alcohol coursed through her, willing Hale to shed her garments and find freedom, relief from the stale desert air and to declare her intentions to Hawke.

"Don't like being ordered around neither." With nimble fingers, she loosened the rest of the buttons and straps and let her shirt hang open. Slow strides took her toward him.

"I'll make you a deal." His hand reached out as a cue for her to stop. She bit her lip and rolled her eyes, expectant for him to explain. "You get as naked as you want. Then we'll lounge about until we get drunk and giggly and see what happens. I'm still on watch, remember?"

"You do a piss poor job of guarding camp. You can watch this instead, arsehole." Hale shrugged her shoulders, letting her shirt fall to the ground.

"I am definitely watching." Hawke creased his brow in deep concentration. Hale laughed as she sat on the end of his bedroll.

Side eying him, she removed a boot and said, "You could lose some clothes too."

"I could." His head tilted to the side. "And I will, only because it looks more comfortable. But you'll have to promise to contain yourself. I know the sight of me without a shirt has made men and women act on their urges."

Unable to withhold her amused scoff, Hale waved her hand toward him. "Just shut up and take your shirt off."

Rather than wait for Hawke, Hale took another long drink and continued removing her garments. She laughed to herself when her foot caught in the leg of her pants. She heard Hawke's amused chuckling beside her until she looked over to see him without a shirt on, her eyes lingering on his chest.

Nate was tall and lean, but Hawke was bigger, hairier, with broader shoulders and a larger frame. She estimated they were about the same age and the fact made her pause. She changed the subject.

"That's a lot of muscles for a mage, innit?" she said with a giggle, sitting in only her underclothes.

With a shrug, Hawke tossed his shirt off the bedroll and moved his other robes as he talked. "I use those for a different kind of magic when necessary." He looked down at his chest with curiosity, flexing and examining his own muscles as if for the first time. Afterward, he glanced back up at Hale with a flirty wink.

Hale's stomach gave an excited flutter and she drank more to drown the feeling. An amusing thought came to mind. "Ever use real magic when you're ploughing?"

A tipsy chuckle escaped him. "First of all, it's all _real_ magic, and on occasion, when the time calls for it. It can enhance the mood, heighten sensation, inflict mild pain if it's used carefully."

"Sounds fun." She stretched out her legs on the bedroll toward him. Smooth fabric rubbed on her bare limbs, showing its quality to her skin. It was comfortable

Hawke's hand touched her calf. Softer than Nate's hands or most of the other men she found in bars, it rested gently on her leg.

Hawke continued the conversation as if the placement of his palm made no difference. "Fun is one word to describe it." He took a drink with his other hand.

Alcohol buzzing her mind rushed desire and frustration, she pushed her leg into his. Impatient with the steady pace of their flirting, she decided to goad him. Her hands untucked her binder and removed the band. She didn't wait before she also removed the bra.

"Those look fun too." Hawke's eyes traveled from her chest to her face. He gave a conservative but impressed frown.

"Fun is one fuckin' word for them." She laughed and leaned back on her side. Curved and elongated along Hawke's bedroll, she propped her head up on her elbow and placed her half-empty drink against her belly. Her breasts pressed together, her own skin touching skin.

A smirk pulled at the side of Hawke's lips, but he shook his head, pretending not to be beguiled by Hale's display. He answered straight-faced. "Looks can be deceiving. I'd definitely need to get a better feel before I can offer my opinion." The repeated wandering of his gaze to her chest belied his discipline.

"We still talkin' about my tits?" Snickering into her bottle, she tipped it back and finished off her wine. As she swallowed, she pressed her leg closer to Hawke, forcing his hand to slide up her calf.

Another smile spread on Hawke's mouth, and he rolled his eyes this time. But his hand didn't move. "Probably not." The factual tone in his voice contradicted the flash of mischief in his eyes, another quick tease before he also downed the last of his bottle.

As he set the bottle down, his hand wandered up Hale's bare legs and her grin grew wider. She bit her lip. The feel of new hands livened her senses; the pads of his fingertips applying enough pressure to make her heart pound and heat build in her core. Different from Nathaniel, Hawke's digits moved in their own way. The novel sensation coaxed a sound from Hale, partly a moan and partly a growl.

Energy ran through her legs, fueled by the need to move. To pursue. Hawke leaned hunger in his light brown eyes caught her attention, familiar to the casual sex partners she had before Nate, free of the intense chemistry she held with the Commander. The absence burned, reminding her of the self-inflicted hole in her heart. But it came with gratitude. The sparks with Garrett were fun and temporary. _No strings attached to this whoreson,_ she tried to remind herself. _An easy sodding way to get over Nate._

Hale made a tiny growl and in a quick motion, she shifted on her legs to pounce Hawke, straddling him. Wild, relentless, she rested her forehead on his and reached for the buckle of his pants between her legs.

Hawke's neck tilted back, and he leaned in for a kiss. He rolled her over onto her back as their lips met, then he pulled away. Kneeling, he left Hale on her back. "Why the hurry? Haven't I told you not to rush magic?"

Scoffing, Hale pushed off the bedroll to kneel across from him. "Anyone ever told you talk too fuckin' much?"

"On occasion." His hands touched her shoulders, calming her combative tone. As his palms traveled down her arms, the faintest magical jolts sparked the tiny spasms on her skin.

Surreal surges tickled, nearly painful, and she laughed, entertained with the intensity building before his hands released. Hale rubbed the tingling out of her arms and staring at Hawke with excitement. He tried to tame the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Hawke put his hands through the long side of her hair and leaned in for another kiss. She took a greedy inhale through her nose, searching for the pleasant scents of his cologne. His peck on her lips landed and then he paused, smiling at her, scanning her face with curiosity. It lasted a moment too long and Hale blushed. "What? I like that smelly shite you're wearing."

"Smelly Shite is actually the name of my cologne, made exclusively for me back in Kirkwall." He leaned in and kissed one side of her neck. His beard tickled and her muscles tensed, holding back her laughter.

When Hawke's mouth moved to her ear, Hale sighed.

"This is leisure." His low tone rumbled and then moved to her other ear. "This is debauchery."

His lips returned to her neck, kisses interrupted by nibbling. And Hale let him. Her eyes closed; her arms hung at her sides. She took the chance to smell the fragrance again, losing herself in it.

"You're a laggard," she mumbled, snickering as his mouth reached her collarbone. "Stop stalling and plough me."

A breathy laugh escaped Hawke and his beard moved against her skin.

"Fuck!" She hissed, half giggling. But Hawke didn't stop, he nuzzled his beard into her neck, provoking loud, uncontrolled giggles from Hale. For the briefest moment, she wondered if Nate heard. _Let him._

Overcome with wriggling, Hale managed to push Hawke away. Her hands combed through his black hair and she pressed her lips to his, hard. Not missing a beat, Hawke reciprocated, kissing back with equal intensity.

Annoyed by his composure, but aroused by the game, she pushed him away. With Hawke laying half on his bedroll, she reached toward his pants and unlaced them.

Hawke propped up on his elbows, watching her. "I warned you the sight of me shirtless makes people act uncontrollably."

She paused pulling his pants off his legs to scowl at him. "I'm warnin' ya to shut..." she struggled, tugging his pants while emphasizing the words, "the fuck... up."

"Dirty talk. I like it." He reached his arms down to shoo her away and finished taking off his pants on his own. Left only in his underwear, he glanced up. "I can think of better ways to use my mouth." He licked his lips.

Snorting, half annoyed half amused, she crawled. Her hands and knees slid along his bedroll, over his frame, until she reached her destination with her breasts hovering over his face. A nipple grazed his lower lip and Hale watched him, waiting for him to take the bait. He pressed his lips together, pursing to kiss the tender skin. Then his eyes wandered up, past his forehead to meet hers. Then he gave a tiny shake to his head.

In a quick motion, his hands grasped around the sides of her chest. He pulled her down and rolled her over, yet again. Laying on her back with Hawke's hands planted on the bedroll on either side of her, Hale's chest heaved with annoyance. "You like bein' the one on top," she grumbled.

"Do I?" Hawke smirked, hovering over her, and leaning down to lick her hardened nipple. He sucked for a moment, then gently tugged his teeth. "Well, would you look at that? I suppose I do." He continued to the other breast.

"Little shite," she whispered, and agile fingers traveled down Hawke's stomach, venturing under waist of his underwear. She found his member warm and erect, and wrapped her hand around it. _Not so little,_ she refrained from commenting on his length out loud, not wishing to fuel his ego any more. _Nate's bigger anyway._

Hawke hid a groan within a laugh, his mouth gaping over her nipple. Her tightened hand held him, up and down motions pulling him toward her and pushing him away. She expected to overpower him, to use her deft hand's skilled stroking to distract Hawke from his goals and get him on his back. But her plans were extinguished when Hawke extended his arms, putting space between their bodies.

He let her continue, watching her as she worked him. His light brown eyes alight with playful energy as if humored by her efforts. She stopped stroking and gave him a dead stare.

He gave a small shrug. "Let me guess. You prefer being on top too."

She couldn't find words to describe the preference for control over casual partners. Most never questioned her, and her experiences with Nate differed from every encounter prior to him from the beginning. Nate had been the exception.

She only glared back at Hawke, teeth clenched, her lips pressed together in an angry pout.

"Even your pouting is graceful." Hawke's thumb flicked down her lower lip, leaving Hale's mouth parted open. Without breaking eye contact, he sat back and reclined over his pillow. "I can't resist your charm. I'll make you another deal. We'll take turns." Hawke's hands gestured toward his nearly naked body. An invitation. "Lady's first."

A reluctant grin snuck through Hale's frown. Whatever questions she had of straying from her norm with flings vanished. Well-built sinew, a large chest marked with dark body hair, all on a man far beyond her age charged the heat between her legs. "You still talk too much," she said through a smirk.

In only her panties, she stood up and looked down at him. Scanning the cotton shorts he wore, she noticed his partial erection and arched her brow. "You wanna take those off?

His eyebrow mirrored hers. He tucked his thumbs in the side of his underwear and his lips squeezed shut, holding back his laughter as he lifted his hips, taking the shorts off. It was visible it took effort for him to refrain from adding some snarky comeback.

He tossed the undergarment aside and Hale observed, blushing, smirking. "Looks like fun." Confident steps took her toward him and her fingers found the hem of her panties. Not missing a step, she shimmied them off and let them fall to the ground. She flung them to the side with her foot.

Still slightly inebriated, her head felt warm and fuzzy, comfortable with the help of wine, she stepped over Hawke. A foot on either side, she alternated feet and caressed her toes on the insides and outsides of his legs. Though not a common practice, using her feet to arouse another, it seemed appropriate with Hawke. The black hairs on his legs tickled her feet and she giggled until she reached his midframe.

"If I had a foot fetish, that would probably be quite a turn on." He commented as she lowered to her knees, resting her heat on his member.

His entry delayed, she straddled him, using the position to prolong their play. His erection contradicted his nonchalance. "Yer cock must have a foot fetish then."

"My cock has a fetish for attractive people." His hands cupped her rear and hovered up to her lower back. One stayed, steadfast in its appreciation of her hip, now rocking over him, while the other massaged her breast.

She closed her eyes, enjoying the moment and the subtle stimulation his hardness gave her clit. Slow, she took her time, something that rarely occurred in the past. Before she joined the Wardens, her sexual encounters were brief. Partners lacked the skill and vigor to prolong their dalliances. Even her nights with Damia felt more like a competition.

With Nate, heated passion so impatient fueled yearning for connection, both literal and figurative. It did not permit them to yield. Nate would not abide lazy foreplay, equating it to dispassionate teasing that could not satisfy his hunger. Their stamina allowed for extended waves of energy and play. Her stomach twisted; she returned her attention to Garrett.

Without the overwhelming chemistry, Hale found herself inclined to explore her options with Hawke, taking advantage of the assumed open invitation to go slow. She enjoyed Hawke for her own selfish reasons. When her eyes opened, she found him looking up her with a self-satisfied stare. Her rocking slowed.

"What?" She said, snippy and annoyed. But without a second thought, she ran her hands up his chest, appreciating the extra chest hair as she waited for an answer.

"You look leisurely." He relaxed his hands behind his head.

Annoying as it was, the man's cocky, self-assuredness had grown on her. Humored, comfortable, she gave a breathy laugh in playful exasperation and tugged on his chest hair.

Caught off guard, Hawke's mouth gaped open for just a second, but he recovered and puckered his lips as though he enjoyed it. "Is that all you've got?"

A devilish and tipsy grin spread on Hale's lips. Her fingers didn't hesitate to twist both of Hawke's nipples, hard. His quick yell was drowned out by her raucous laughter, and Hawke reached toward her nipples in revenge. Between laughs, she yelped, "no," and almost fell off of him.

Philippa's arrogant and stern voice called from a neighboring tent. "In the name of Andraste, child, will you and that lecher shut up?"

Bringing a sudden end to her laughing fit, Hale stared at Hawke with wide eyes, excited at the thought of being caught. It meant Nate heard.

Hawke's forehead lifted, and he spoke louder to reply to the sorceress, "Forgive us, Philippa. We would hate to disrupt the sleep of one as wise, beautiful…and aged as yourself."

A wordless grumble answered and ceased. Hale assumed the woman lacked the energy to find a better comeback.

Not waiting for Hale's attention to return to him, Hawke leaned forward so their chests touched. Kneeling over him, Hale felt the tip of him, full, hard teasing her entrance, but he didn't rush further. Hawke's fingers traced up her back and followed the curve of her neck; he weaved his fingers through her hair and pulled. The firm grip gave a solid tug and forced Hale's head to tilt the same direction. She groaned.

Even though she couldn't see his mouth, his grip so firm she couldn't move, Hawke's low voice reverberated. "Hair pulling is a crude and tasteless method of stimulation." He gave another tug. "I'm game."

Baring her teeth, Hale smiled in appreciation. With her head immobile, she wriggled her hips forward against his body, lifting them, angling herself so that he entered. She ran a hand through his chest hair again, and then found the back of his head. As she tugged, her other hand balanced on his shoulder. Hawke gave a pleasant sigh. She settled onto him.

He liked it. Heavy breathing and long blinks interrupted their competitive staring. But she rocked a few times before he pulled her hair harder and brought her back to the bedroll. He removed himself from her as he transitioned to his knees. He pinned her legs open, his bearded face found her heat. Hale pushed onto her hands, ready to force him away and continue wrestling for a position above him. But then he licked her, and again the tip of his tongue made unique lines along her tender skin. She collapsed onto her back and moaned.

He changed his pattern, a figure-eight, teasing the edges of the sensitive location. Involuntarily, she writhed, unable to acclimate to the unsteady rhythms. This was nothing like Nate. His persistent and patient patterns kept a beat with her moans and summoned overwhelming escalation. But now, Hawke's taunting licks skated her nerves. Growling in frustration, she pulled his hair. His tongue stopped, and she felt his mouth vibrating against her slick flesh. _This fucker is still talking._

"Dammit, will you shut the fuck up...Ha-" As she spoke, he closed his lips around her bead and sucked. "Hawke!" Her cry became a whining moan. "Mother fucker." She sighed and squeezed his hair again, but Hawke ignored her. He returned to his unique patterns, eventually picking one that made her climax. She held her breath, not willing to give him the pleasure of coaxing another moan; the sensation of release rolled over her body as she finished.

He was good at this.

"Fuck you," she grumbled, glaring at him.

He wiped his mouth and crawled over her upper half, grinning. "Fucking is what we're doing, isn't it? Glad we are on the same page," Hawke said, a hand reaching toward her breast and squeezing. "You're welcome, by the way."

Annoyed, Hale wrapped her legs around him. Strength applied, she squeezed her thighs and used leverage with her calves to bring him closer. "Just shut yer fuckin' mouth and fuck me," she hissed, but Hawke resisted, pushing his back against her legs. He freed himself from her grasp.

Sarcasm coated his words; he lifted a playful brow. "If I had a coin for everytime someone said that to me..." His words trailed off and he snickered, entertained by his own joke. Resting back on his knees, he added, "Fine. But only since you asked so nicely."

Hale made an exaggerated sigh, relieved at his statement. She reached her feet toward him, pulling at him with the tops of her toes. Hawke only shook his head and reached for her feet, a gentle grip pulled them away.

He maneuvered her body to accommodate his. It was an unusual position Hale had never tried before. She rested, partially on her side with one leg under him and the other around. Hawke stayed on his knees; his hand held Hale's upper leg, the other grasped her hip.

"And now for the moment you've been waiting for," Hawke said, aligning himself with her entrance. Their gazes locked.

With a clear view of him, Hale sneered and rolled her eyes.

Hawke chuckled, and at the same time, he pushed himself into her.

She gasped, pacing her exhale as Hawke repeated the motion. Vigor added intensity with each repetition and Hale relaxed, permitting a moan. Her hand held her breast, massaging, kneading her own flesh as Hawke found speed and pattern.

He felt different than Nate. The only man she'd been with since joining the Order, each time with Nate was new. His fascination with her persisted through every shape they took, joining, bending, moving together, exploring the realm of possibilities with their bodies. He fit her. Filling her up with a powerful connection and no room for doubt.

Hawke was nothing like Nate. Skilled and creative, Hawke instigated Hale's response for his own amusement. He was showing off and she knew it, attempting to impress her with his bedroom talents even in these restrained conditions. It worked. From this position, the variety of colors within his tent filled her peripheral vision and the fabric of his bedroll summoned her attention each time he thrust. She slid on it, back and forth, appreciating the cushioned softness.

Arching over her, Hawke steadied himself with one hand on her rear. The middle finger of the other faintly touched the inside of her upper leg. It stung like ice. She squirmed, her heart rate accelerating as Hawke's icy finger channeled magic and traced further down her leg. A loud, uncomfortable laugh escaped her.

His hips slowed. Random thrusts left her wanting more and at the awkward position, she tried to drive her hips on him. But the mischief in Hawke's eyes glistened, yet again. His finger left her inner thigh, giving her nerves a gentle reprieve from the cold. A moment later, his finger applied the faintest pressure near her heat. He dragged his finger on the outside of her lips, one side at a time and then withdrew.

Hale whined, the motion stopping her hips and making her freeze. She glared at him, furious for her lack of mobility but overwhelmed by the rare sensations. He only gave her a smirk, but it spoke a loud 'I told you so.'

His hand returned, this time applying relieving warmth to the previously iced vicinity. The method continued, finding more private regions of her heat, each time shocking her senses and sending her into fits of tortured giggles, only abated by the warmth of his hand. Brief glimpses of him when her eyes weren't closed found him interested, engaged. His fixed stare watched her face for reactions.

Then the steady pounding of his hips returned, and the warmth stayed. His digits found a neutral temperature, fixating on the swollen bead above her core. His light strokes forced her back to arch and her laughs faded to moans, climbing in pitch until she finished. Immobilized yet again with a satisfying peak, the tingling release crawled down her limbs. She didn't say his name.

When she was done, Hawke's hand moved away from her slickness. Balancing her leg in an advantageous way. It gave him more entry, deeper penetration that he found with harder thrusts. Then he groaned, and again louder.

"I'm so close," Hawke muttered, pushing against her hips to remove himself.

It didn't matter. Pregnancy was nearly impossible for a Warden and whatever illnesses he might carry couldn't live on a Warden host. But she didn't tell him that. He pulled himself from her and let her lay on her back. With his eyes squeezed shut, he came, the fluids landing across her torso. Hawke didn't say her name either.

Not waiting for him to collect himself, she grabbed a nearby article of his clothing and cleaned herself off.

Then it was over. Hawke made a gratified exhale and plopped down on the bedroll beside her. "As expected, that was fulfilling."

"Right, yeah," Hale muttered to herself, agreeing half-heartedly. She refrained from sharing her detailed opinions, unable to pinpoint the source uncomfortable knot in her stomach. Light snoring beside her indicated Hawke had already dozed off. "Wardens do it better."


	17. Sight

The fire swelled, flames engorging each time Caoilainn leaned her weight into the handle to compress the bellow. Heat emanated, warming her face and body, even through the thick apron. When she let the handle rise, she pulled a rag from a pocket in her dress. Lifting it to her face she patted her forehead, wiping away the few droplets of sweat that formed. As she did, her eyes caught someone walking past the blacksmith's station, leaving from the palace.

 _The messenger._ The satchel on the young man's shoulder gave it away. She didn't recognize him, but the rotation in messengers made memorizing faces impossible. Caoilainn pulled off her apron, mumbling to Lora of her departure. The blacksmith rolled her eyes; she had already offered Caoilainn to leave an hour earlier when she finished her previous task.

Caoilainn hurried inside the palace. Pacing herself, determined not to push her body further, nor desiring to show poor palace etiquette, she walked quickly until she reached her office. A pile of letters rested on her desk and she sighed with relief. Her heart rate slowed, and she relaxed into her chair, picking up the mail to locate the letter she expected. One by one, she tossed papers and parcels onto the desk. A letter the from one of many banns, a letter from the Inquisitor, and a gift from Starkhaven, none interested her. The letter she wanted was missing.

Her heart sank. She had received nothing from Alistair in over a week. His last letter from Nevarra City had been hurtful. Bitter words reminded Caoilainn of his resentment, and the superiority he boasted for not committing the same crimes to their marriage. His pain had seeped through the parchment leaving Caoilainn with only haunting visions of Alistair's potential for vengeful and self-destructive behavior.

With a soft thud, she sank back in the chair. Helpless irritation made her eyes water. A rush of emotion, something she had grown accustomed to since becoming pregnant overtook her. She pressed her fingers over her closed eyes and whimpered. Deep breaths rattled on the exhale, quiet, quivering cries of grief. Then she took a deliberate breath to collect herself, staying the urge to collapse into sobbing, temporarily soothing the lonely hole in her chest.

Caoilainn rubbed her belly. Beneath her clothes, stretching skin accommodated the small bump still forming. It made her eyes water with a different brand of tears. With a sigh her muscles eased, and she smiled, a private expression intended for only herself. An unadulterated love had grown for the seedling within her. It astonished Caoilainn, and she was keenly aware of her limited scope of this unique and profound love's potential, even at this early stage of the child's life.

Efforts to prevent her hopes from lifting too high had long since proven feeble. She was less than a week from the date Morrigan gave her, the date Morrigan stated her risks of miscarriage would lessen. Time inched by, seconds dragging as she prayed to the Maker that she'd reach the mark without falter. And simultaneously, she awed at the reality she carried Alistair's child for so long already.

She nodded to herself. _Chin up, tits out._ Waiting in her office for a letter that would not arrive provided no results in her productivity, and without any other menial tasks as queen or chores for the blacksmith to complete that day, Caoilainn improvised. She rose from her seat, grabbed her cloak, and took determined steps to the grand hall to seek Morrigan's company.

The Witch of the Wilds had insisted on a room on the outskirts of the palace, near the palace healers, when she announced she would stay with Caoilainn while the rest traveled.

 _"'_ _Tis only essential I have access to herbs if I am to be your aid."_ It was the extent of Morrigan's explanation.

Caoilainn recalled her last words to Alistair. _"Take as long as you need."_ The memory made her eyes roll. He had already been gone for more than two weeks, and as more time passed between his letters, she realized her error. The lie masked as codependent encouragement stemmed from her fears of losing him permanently _._ In truth, she needed him back.

Shaking her head to clear the thought, she walked toward the conservatory. Shorter days of winter meant the sun had already fallen and the outer corridors of the palace lacked the lighting of the grand hall. She slowed her steps as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The quiet carried the distant sound of voices and compelled her footsteps

Meager light darkened to pitch, and she trusted her hand to find the handle of the door. Muscle memory located the handle, just like the others throughout the palace. Hoping for more light beyond the threshold than in the shadowy hall, she pushed open the door and inhaled.

A jungle spread in front of her, greens of varying shades accented with other colors; rows of elfroot and embrium filled the center, spreading out and stacked with a wider variety of herbs she didn't recognize. Strategic lighting emanated from low burning lanterns, placed in safe spaces away from the plant life. Street lights and buildings of the palace district reflected through the glass, issuing a glow within the conservatory.

After enough tales from Morrigan of evening visits to the greenhouse, harvesting herbs without interruption from the palace herbalist, she expected to find her friend in the long shadows of foliage. But the conservatory was silent, only echoing the sounds from the nearby district. Caoilainn squinted her eyes, searching in vain for signs of her friend.

A young voice from behind startled her. "Are queens allowed to visit the conservatory at night?"

Catching her breath, she smiled and turned around, knowing the speaker before she saw his face. "Kieran." She confirmed with a pleasant nod. "Queens can be wherever they want within the palace any time of the day. Are boys supposed to be away from their mothers this late at night?"

Kieran looked down, his hands crossed over his chest and he frowned. It reminded her of Alistair. "Mother told me to find you."

He had grown since Skyhold. Nearing his adolescence, he was taller, but his messy hair and dirty knees suggested he still played in the dirt when no one was looking. She recognized his dislike of the insinuation of his youth; Caoilainn had not enjoyed it either when she was his age.

"Does that mean Morrigan is nearby?" Caoilainn looked beyond Kieran to the entryway.

The young man nodded, pointing to the back of the greenhouse. "Mother said she has important matters to attend and that I shall escort you to her."

Kieran extended his hand for Caoilainn to take. She stared at it, remembering all the times she took Oren's hand when he wanted to show her something. Keiran was only a few years older than when Oren passed.

Remembering her nephew's boundless energy and games provoked tears when she thought about him too much. It worsened when she remembered that much of his childhood, Caoilainn had been annoyed with his constant desire to play interrupting her personal plans as a teenager of training at Castle Cousland. Recent conversations with Fergus gave both of them chances to reveal their pain. Yet Fergus missing the critical piece of his life, unable to heal from the gaping wound, contributed more to her guilt.

With an inhale, she forced a smile for Kieran and took his hand, almost as big as hers now that he had grown. Kieran's hand squeezed, and he tugged for her to follow further into the greenhouse. She did, taking careful steps so as not to hit anything in the dim lighting.

"You're sad without the funny king here." Kieran chirped over his shoulder as he pulled Caoilainn along. "He makes you laugh."

Grateful for the dark, Caoilainn pressed her lips together. She had not anticipated the poignant observation from the young man. They had only spent short periods of time in the same company at the dinner table since he arrived. The comment stung. "Do you like Denerim, Kieran? Have you found enough fun things to do?" Caoilainn inquired, touching the leaf of a nearby plant as they passed.

He glanced over his shoulder. "I like it better here than Skyhold." His head turned forward again, and he continued. "There are more places to play and people to play with and Mother says we don't need to run anymore."

"Run?" Caoilainn questioned his choice of words, creasing her brow and tightening her grip on his hand. They stopped walking near a table covered in smeared dirt, marked with hand prints. Empty pots had been stacked in a corner separate from herbs piled in sections.

"Thank you, little man." Morrigan's voice replied before Kieran answered. "I will talk to the queen now."

The young man's hand released Caoilainn's and flexed. He made a loud huff. "I'm too tall to be called little, Mother."

Morrigan's eyes widened, as if surprised. "You may play elsewhere in the conservatory or return to the room and prepare for bed. 'Tis your choice."

Kieran rolled his eyes and held his stance, and Morrigan mirrored with her hands on her hips. After a moment, the boy backed down and stomped off in the direction they came.

Morrigan sighed and gestured toward Kieran walking away. "Behold what you may look forward to."

"I remember that age." Smirking, Caoilainn walked closer to Morrigan, speaking low so as not to be overheard. "I argued with my parents for the sheer principle of arguing when I wasn't ogling at castle guardsmen."

"Add that he eats his body weight in food every day and you have my Kieran. I've caught him slack-jawed and eying anything around the palace with curves, and even some of your men." Morrigan waved her hand in a flourish.

"Once again, he takes after his father," Caoilainn chuckled.

Morrigan's lips pulled to a modest frown at the subject. She looked away before returning her gaze to Caoilainn. "He's asked about his father. One of many reasons he's angry with me lately, now that he's changed."

 _Changed?_ Morrigan's choice of words alluded Caoilainn, but she gave an understanding nod. Caoilainn took in a slow breath. After a moment, she replied, "What have you told him?"

"My story is the same. Merely that his father was a good man, and that he must not worry about such things. His birth was a miracle granted to me, and therefore my responsibility alone." Morrigan's arms crossed as she spoke, as if defending her declaration from any potential argument.

There was none. Caoilainn leaned her hip against the nearby table, unconcerned with any dirt that might rub onto her dress. _That's not fair to Kieran. He is too much like his father._ She reflected on the unfortunate circumstances of the Blight that placed all of them in this bind now. Though uncomfortable, convincing Alistair to sleep with Morrigan had not been as guilt ridden as she expected. If Kieran had not been conceived either Caoilainn or Alistair would be dead, and the consequences of her selfish desire to keep them both alive now faced her.

Morrigan sighed and lifted her hands away from her chest. "Were I him, my answer would only raise more questions."

"I'm sure it has." Not intending the matter-of-fact tone did not prevent it from seeping through her words. Morrigan's brow furrowed in offense, but she remained quiet. Caoilainn softened her voice, her face wrinkling in apology. "Maybe he should know more."

It hurt to say the words aloud. Admitting Kieran's parentage required her to acknowledge her pregnancy with Alistair's second child. The bitter truth made Kieran a rightful heir, even if born a bastard. But lingering effects of Alistair's abandonment still plagued him, and she did not wish that upon Kieran.

"You're kidding." A laugh escaped the witch and she inhaled to guffaw again, but when her eyes met Caoilainn's straight face, her face fell. "'Twould be amusing if you realized the absurdity of your statement. Would you like me to tell Kieran everything? Shall I move to Denerim to play house with yourself and the King? You are preposterous."

Caoilainn's voice rose. "Listen to yourself! My desire for you to stay in Denerim is as great as yours. Your belief I would be so careless is what is absurd." She pressed her hand on her chest. "It is not for me to say what Kieran is told. That is a decision for his parents." With an inhale and a gulp, she said, "Both of them."

Morrigan stared back wide eyed for a moment before she wrinkled her forehead and shook her head. "Who is this woman masquerading as Caoilainn?" The suspicious squint in her eyes lacked humor. "The queen I know would never gamble her status or prestige in favor of her husband's sentimental nature. 'Tis powerful, the influence of pregnancy."

"Shut up, Morrigan." Blushing, Caoilainn rolled her eyes but she did not deny Morrigan's conclusion. Thus far, pregnancy had made Caoilainn decidedly more sensitive. She often found herself daydreaming heartwarming fantasies of Alistair's return, and other times teary with little to no provocation. Even more often, waves of unrelenting irritability made every noise and sensation infuriate her.

Caoilainn swallowed her frustration. "I don't wish to advertise these details to the public." She chose to change the subject, "How has Kieran changed?"

"Come on." The witch laughed again, but her eyes darted away. She was hiding something. "Must I explain to you the tempestuous details of a moody boy's transition into adolescence?"

"You can lie to me or keep it a secret. It is not my business." With a small shake of her head, Caoilainn lifted her chin. They both knew Morrigan avoided the question.

It took restraint to let go of the subject. The conflict between Morrigan and her son seemed to be about more than just his father, but Caoilainn did not push further.

Morrigan sighed. "He's lost his sight and it frustrates him."  
"His sight?" The furrow in Caoilainn's brow feigned confusion, but she suspected she knew what Morrigan meant.

Glancing past Caoilainn, Morrigan scanned the darker corners of the greenhouse for signs of Kieran. "'Tis not something I desire to explain further. It is an adjustment for us both."

' _We don't need to run anymore.'_ Kieran's words before played again in Caoilainn's ears. Certain it was connected to whatever adjustments Morrigan spoke, but unable to determine how, Caoilainn only gave a respectful nod to her friend.

"Morrigan?" Caoilainn put a hand on her belly. An inkling thought resurfaced, one that often crept into the back of her mind when she allowed it. Her chest tightened. "Will my child be… normal, even though I carried the darkspawn taint for so long?"

Chuckling, Morrigan turned toward the table to gather a section of herbs. "If you mean to ask if your child will be some darkspawn hybrid, then no. Your cure from the taint has not made you a broodmother." She laughed to herself again as she placed the herbs in a satchel and swung it over her shoulder. "No traces of the taint remained after the ritual, and whatever damage the sickness caused has repaired enough for you to conceive. You've carried the pregnancy this long and it suggests you and your child are well. Breathe, Caoilainn."

Caoilainn released her breath. Morrigan's assurances were imperfect, failing to offer guaranteed health of her child, but the woman's confidence assuaged Caoilainn's anxiety in the moment. Her cheeks blushed again but she smiled, attempting a stifled laugh along with Morrigan's joviality. "Thank you."

After Morrigan collected a few more piles of herbs, they made their way to the palace hall. At some point Kieran joined them, following and asking mother questions about their destination as they walked. Caoilainn observed Morrigan's tactful and impressive division of her attention between both of her conversations.

* * *

Despite the tension of her conversation with Morrigan, Caoilainn found her mood lighter. Gratitude filled her for Morrigan's divulgence of her own frustrations, a rare occurrence Caoilainn knew to respect.

She chuckled, climbing the palace steps to the higher floor. Caoilainn's fears about the taint influencing her pregnancy sounded comical in Morrigan's reply. The quiet conversation, hidden away in the corner of the conservatory had given respite from the loneliness that had prevailed since Alistair left, even among so much company with her temporary visitors.

But her giggle was cut short. A sharp cramp shot through her lower abdomen. She froze. Startled and afraid, Caoilainn leaned against the stone wall of the stairwell. The pain was no more severe than those during her cycle, but it exceeded the mild soreness she had experienced thus far in her pregnancy. She yelped, and one hand instinctively clutched her belly. _Something is wrong. Please, no._ Eyes watering, heart pounding, she supported herself with the wall until she reached the washroom. The pain ebbed by the time she entered the doorway.

The distinct sensation of moisture between her legs spiked her fear. She leaned against the wash bin counter, her head dizzy. Dreading what she would find and desperate for an answer, she hiked her skirt and tugged her underclothes down around her knees. Her breath caught in her throat and her face was hot. She saw large spots of dark red blood.

"Morrigan!" She yelled toward the hallway, desperate and ignoring that Morrigan wouldn't hear her. She tried again. "Morrigan, help me!" Pulling her underclothes back up, the blood minimal and not delaying her from seeking help, she hurried to find her friend.

Step after step, she rushed down the stairwell. Deep breaths failed to calm her nerves, but she kept measuring the inhales and exhales, recalling all the things she'd heard Morrigan tell her about a healthy pregnancy. None of Morrigan's stories included the amount of blood she saw.

"Morrigan!" Rounding a corner, Caoilainn neared the hallway of Morrigan's room. "I need you!"

"What is it now?" Morrigan huffed, pulling closed a robe over her nightclothes as she walked into the hallway. "Can it wait until morning."

"No, Morrigan. I found blood, more than usual." The words poured out of Caoilainn's mouth, frantic and worried she whimpered. "I can't lose this baby. I don't know if I could live with myself."

"Breathe, Caoilainn." The neutral expression on Morrigan's face showed on signs of panic. Slow steps took her closer to Caoilainn, and Morrigan extended her hand to gently touch Caoilainn's small belly. "Just take a moment and breathe."

Caoilainn obeyed, her breath hitching on the inhale as she fought back more tears. Morrigan's hand moved to different locations on Caoilainn's midsection, studying, measuring what grew inside. Caoilainn couldn't tell if she used magic.

The resonating soreness from her cramping reminded Caoilainn of the genuine panic she experienced upstairs, but it seemed the bleeding had stopped. She was cold.

* * *

Writer's note: Hey everyone... whoever is still reading. I am SO sorry for these chapters taking so long lately. I really appreciate your readership and your patience. I am taking some time to really get reacquainted with my fic family tomorrow. I *think* I have my life back on track to manage my fanfic writing time. Thank you! Comments are so much appreciated!


	18. Vyrantium

At some point the dust disappeared. Stone protruded from the flat lands, void of trees and all shrouded by mountains in the distance. Despite the craggy land's inhospitable appearance, patches of grass revealed its fertility. Small creeks reached toward the road, dividing the rocky landscape, and the sound of distant water suggested the streams met at a larger river. Abundant resources were available for those who knew where to look.

The Imperial Highway had appeared again, dividing to take them to the east and west, respectively. But in their travels through the Silent Plains, the need for a well-stocked city proved more essential than hurrying to Weisshaupt. Hopes to gather more information about the Wardens before reaching the stronghold had urged them. They chose collectively to avoid both choices of the highway and instead followed the pending river north to the Nocen Sea. The extra two days offered a chance to restock supplies and find decent beds before continuing to the Anderfels.

* * *

 _"You know they might assume you're a slave in Tevinter?" Ignoring any potential faults with timing and context for such a conversation, Hawke presented the concern to Hale._

 _Her eyes rolled along with her hips on top of him. Sweaty but not without stamina, she ignored his comment and continued her quest for distraction, squeezing her eyes shut._

 _She was using him, his tent, his cock, and although Hawke was aware, he didn't mind. She made decent company when she overcame her anger, and the formidable parallels of the young woman to Isabela softened her harsh edges. Just as he attributed Isabela's magnetism to her unique elocution, simultaneously sordid and refined, Hale's spirited energy delivered a fearless assessment of her surroundings. Witty retorts hidden within a selective use of curse words betrayed her lack of formal education._

 _Without a tent of her own, she had made use of the decadent bedroll she had originally mocked while enjoying the advantages of leisure he had lectured her about only a few nights ago._

 _He continued, "I mean, unless they think you're Liberati. I'm not sure which would be worse for you." His hands held her hips as she moved, valuing her controlled gyration but only in patient waiting for the chance to roll her over._

 _Her squeezed eyes opened, giving him a disgruntled stare without breaking her pace. "Bollocks Hawke, will you shut up?" Her hand covered his mouth as her rocking exaggerated, her body shaking as she reached her peak._

 _Hawke allowed it, bemused with her forwardness and prepared to take his turn. Choosing to end the one-sided conversation, he put her on her back. Pushing her thighs against her chest, he thrust into her._

 _In the few nights they had shared his bed, they found a method to their forays, satisfying both of their sexual needs and all-too-similar personalities. Without emotional clauses, neither worried about the other's expectations for the arrangement. Whatever other needs she filled with their nights together, a rebound or an effort to forget the Commander, he assumed they succeeded since she continued to return._

* * *

After her first dalliance with Hawke, Hale had woken with a headache to noise outside his tent. Hawke snored next to her. She cursed herself, the pangs of regret amplifying the hangover pounding the insides of her skull. The memory of a night of vengeful drinking, drumming, stripping, laughter, and so much of Hawke's talking had flooded back to her.

Yet she found herself back in his bed that night and the next. The contact she initiated repeatedly ignored his annoying characteristics, their lack of chemistry, and inconveniently similar sexual preferences. _But why?_ He wasn't even that good in bed. Some simple aspects came to mind, the comfort of his oversized bedroll and the fact that he didn't impose. When they finished each night, he didn't feign romantic interest. They did not cuddle. He fell asleep as her mind turned, attempting to understand why she had slept with him again.

 _Nate._ When she returned to the same answer, she denied the conclusion. Frustrated and tumultuous feelings about the Commander found her when she let her mind wander. She shook her head and rose to ready for the last leg of riding to Vyrantium.

She watched him sleeping for a moment. Hawke's messy dark hair tangled over his face. His full beard, usually combed against his jaw, lay disheveled; the hairs facing different directions. She withheld from chuckling at his sleeping appearance. Even in his sleep Hawke made her laugh. She did not deny their friendship.

A few horses drank from the creek while others ate from a patch of grass nearby. Hale walked upstream from them to wash up. She considered Hawke's concerns from the night prior. A Tevinter slaver had taken the life of her father, saving her from the fate Hawke had described, one that elves faced under various guises throughout Thedas. She knew little else about the country, its customs or politics, what the word _Liberati_ meant, nor did she care. Settling with addressing the issues as they arose, she dismissed the concern and finished washing her hair.

Her eyes landed on Nathaniel a short walk away. He did not reciprocate the gaze. Since departing the Silent Plains, given the chance to wash his clothes in the river, he had multiplied his professionalism. He spoke little to anyone, especially not to her.

The Warden Commander's tent was already packed, Hale noticed. His horse groomed and readied ate languidly from the grass. Nate studied a map while eating. His clean hair held back by neat braids complemented his attire; it seemed he even managed to find a way to press his traveling clothes. Only the minor limp he still carried and the grown out salt-and-pepper stubble on his face revealed the stress of traveling conditions.

The detail made her breath shorten. She blocked memories of her appreciation of those coarse hairs tickling her inner thighs, or how much she desired to grab that stubbled jaw and direct an aggressive and passionate reminder of her affection.

As clean as she could be under the conditions, she returned to gather her things from Hawke's tent. She didn't bother to wake him, refusing to assume any responsibility for his behavior regardless of what they did each night.

When she emerged, Nathaniel had disappeared, and she admonished herself for the innate desire to know where he went,

"Warden," Nate's gruff voice sounded. Startled, she turned to face him. "I advise you wear your cowl through the city to cover your ears. Do not display your Warden sigil."

He pointed toward Fiona and Hale followed the direction of his hand. The other elf had already covered her head. Opening her mouth to reply, Hale looked back to Nate to find he had already turned to walk away.

 _Warden._ The way he addressed her, cold and indifferent, made her blood boil. As if he could pretend that he had not referred to her almost exclusively as _the huntress_ since they met. A nickname he had spoken, shouted, whispered and moaned in varying contexts had since vanished from his vocabulary. In the few instances he had addressed her since the night she ended it, he had only called her Warden, reducing her to yet another soldier in his army.

She sneered at his turned back, then covered any Grey Warden heraldry from her attire and donned her cowl as he ordered, gratified the shadows of the hood prevented any others from seeing the livid glistening of her eyes.

The camp finished packing. Members of the travel party had washed, dressed, and eaten enough to continue their trek. A half days ride at a modest pace, the city was visible in the distance. The sea beyond it shimmered in the horizon.

The Warden Commander rode at the front of the group and the King of Ferelden at the back. Neither found need to address the other since their quarrel in the desert. Their dark bruises had faded to lighter shades of blue and purple. Recognizing the reminders of the men's contention, the group refrained from addressing the incident as they continued through Tevinter.

Hale's horse trotted behind Nathaniel's. _"I'd fuckin' follow you anywhere."_ She had informed him confidently when she returned to him at the Keep, when she made the choice to stay a Warden despite having defected from the Order, and despite her fears around the consequence for him as Commander.

And she continued to follow him, even now. Unwilling to lie to herself again, she would remain a Warden if the Order would keep her.

Steady gallops broke for slowed trots when the horses needed. Periodic breaks for the animals to drink water broke apart their ride, giving the group a chance to stretch their legs. As they neared, the silhouettes of the large buildings of the city acquired details, unique angles outlining the metropolitan area.

Hale sat in silence, watching the group as she chewed on dried meat. Most of the party kept to themselves. Hawke, Philippa and Nathaniel choosing silence over awkward discussion while Alistair and Fiona spoke quietly. The evidence of the travel showed on the King, a full and unkempt beard hid much of his face. The two had continued friendly conversation recurring since the beginning of their journey when Fiona and Philippa were not deep in discussion about magic. The women's dialogue had slowed since the Silent Plains.

As Garrett refilled his waterskin, he broke the silence, pondering aloud to Philippa, "Do you think they named the fabric Vyrantium after the city, or the city after the fabric?"

Philippa's head tilted side to side, considering the question. "It's hard to say, really. With a country older than the Chantry, the history of those details is blurred."

Hawke smirked, and Hale braced herself for his comeback. His light chuckle prepared the blow. "I thought you of all people would know, Philippa. You've been around that long, haven't you?"

"You little," Philippa's palm opened, pulling energy from the Fade as her staff illuminated, light swirling around the end.

"Philippa!" Nathaniel turned around from where he stood watching the nearing city and scolded the sorceress. "Ignore him. He's not worth your mana, and unfortunately, we must keep all of our mages intact."

Her palm closed as she released whatever spell she was charging. The woman shook her head and shimmied her shoulders. "Thank you, Nath-" Philippa caught herself, just as Nathaniel's forehead raised, waiting for her to misstep and use his first name again. "Commander. I'm ashamed I needed to be reminded that immature imbeciles such as this one aren't worth the air they breathe."

Hawke made eye contact with Hale and rolled his eyes. He made a face and motioned his lips imitating Philippa's posture. Snorting to herself, Hale kept her mouth shut. Half amused with the situation, she also noticed Nate's animosity stirred her heart. _Is it because of me?_

The question did not have time to linger. Nathaniel spoke up, "We have an hour's ride to Vyrantium. If we leave now, we might make it before the rain starts." He gestured to the threatening clouds ushering from the south.

The party collected themselves and returned to their horses to complete their trip. When they arrived in Vyrantium, initial droplets of rain started to fall, sliding down the sides of buildings and meeting the granite walkways. They secured their horses on the outskirts of the city before venturing in.

The city stretched upward. Gold contrasted marble, sizable buildings summoned any spectator's full attention, lining gridded streets with no efforts to match. Unique pillars erupted on the corners, topped with varying stone dragons, while tended foliage lined the outsides. Inner courtyards of certain mansions hinted at elaborate water gardens.

Odd stares met them as they walked. Their clothes purchased in Nevarra held no similarity to the fashion of Tevinter. Dark colors seemed popular. Asymmetrical designs both extravagant, sleek, and made with contrasting fabric covered those who walked around them. The division of classes was visible at first glance, and those most well-dressed held staves. _Mages._ Hale denoted, curious about this difference from the rest of Thedas.

She noticed very few elves. Those she observed followed humans, dressed in simplified versions of whoever they served. It seemed evident they were intended to match, a living and prideful display for some, a symbol of property for others. Hale kept her head down.

* * *

Nathaniel breathed through his discomfort. Genuine anger, something he experienced too frequently on this quest, made his hands shake when he didn't clench his fists. He held it in. Stoicism portrayed an indifferent leader of their group, but the urge to castigate Alistair, Hawke and Hale required him to keep his tongue pressed against his teeth. He reminded himself to let go of the minor concern for Hale in the crowded streets of Vyrantium gnawing at the back of his mind.

 _The child made her decision. You can focus on your work._ With the order to cover her ears, he did his duty as her Commander, nothing else was required. He had been weak to admit his desire for exclusivity and he chastised himself for the vulnerable moment when he admitted his jealousy of Hawke.

In the end, Hale's decision to end whatever they had between them simplified matters, answering his questions of her commitment, and allowing him to act as her leader without navigating the turbulence of a relationship. Whatever guilt he had assumed when he had broken up with her at Skyhold did not reappear. Hale's decision to find company with Hawke not only confirmed his suspicions, it solidified his resolve.

Regardless of whatever self-learning the young woman needed, he had responsibilities to the Grey Wardens, to Weisshaupt, and to Caoilainn, even if they never spoke again. Outward contrition subsided for fighting with Alistair, only the pain in his leg a subtle reminder of what happened. Anytime self-doubt or criticism arose around the events of the last week in the trek he pushed them down and buckled down on his work.

A break in the street merchants allowed a covered space to collect the group. They all gazed around, wide eyed at the tall buildings and ornate details. He called their attention to him. "We should stay in larger groups and search the city for information." He pointed across the street. "We can meet at the inn tonight."

Alistair's critical squint traveled across the street, measuring up the meeting place Nathaniel decided. He might have been frowning, but his beard covered most of his mouth. "If we find a better inn in our search, I lobby we reconsider our resting place."

"Fine." Nathaniel shrugged, too tired to argue. "We can stock up on supplies in our search. I recommend checking message boards and taverns for information. Wardens in one group, the rest in another?"

Hale's brow twitched, looking up to him for the briefest moment. Whatever value she placed on the decision didn't matter. He chose the groups for convenience and to keep Alistair and Hawke away from him. The King scowled in Hawke's direction but no one verbally opposed Nathaniel's decision.

They divided groups, ignoring the feeble drizzle; stares and searching eyes of the Vyrantians followed both parties as they split up.

Nathaniel led the women under covered walkways to avoid as much rain as possible. The next few hours passed quickly. They stocked their supplies, gathered more portable food and a few more clothing items to help to Weisshaupt. Nathaniel purchased arrows for himself and Hale. He didn't look at her when he handed them over. Without being given direction, Hale elected to stay close to him and Philippa. She did not approach patrons or merchants on her own. Though he assumed her timidity related to fear, he did not offer comfort or reassurance of her safety. _She can take care of herself._

He still hadn't said her name. The sound of her name threatening to leave his lips sped his heart rate, inviting a potential tirade of insults and anger to spew in Hale's direction. Even the thought of calling her _huntress_ caused a tightness in his chest he chose to avoid. Despite the other choice words he could use to address her, he settled with calling her Warden. _It's easier this way._

The three of them checked varying message boards, finding no useful information. As evening neared, the bars filled with a wider variety of patrons. The middle class relieved of their work duties joined those who drank all day.

Philippa, Nathaniel, and Hale settled into a booth at a tavern. _If it could even be called a tavern._ The extravagant decorations continued inside, stone sculptures built into columns supported beams. He had chosen a lower-end establishment, assuming Alistair would pick an upscale equivalent, and the group potentially needing information from both sources.

Nathaniel ordered drinks for them from the barkeep. When he returned to their table, Philippa pushed her hand down, a sign to keep quiet. She pointed to her ear for him to listen. Hale made an unconscious motion to remove her hood to hear better, but Nathaniel's eyes darted to her. He mouthed ' _be careful'_ and passed her drink. _If she's found without an owner there's nothing I can do._

As an elf not granted freedom by a Magisterium judge, nor the property of a Tevinter human, she risked arrest or capture. An attractive elf in Tevinter with talents such as Hale's could be valuable, but Hale's sharp tongue could get her killed. Nathaniel was unwilling to claim to be her owner.

The Warden released her hood, leaving it over her head, took the drink and slouched back against the backrest. Nathaniel didn't react, instead tuning into what he heard in the booth next to them.

A man's Tevene accent spoke to his companions. "A ghoul in the Anderfels. It was a week ago."

The statement was followed with a cascade of questions neither Philippa or Nathaniel could make out. Philippa tilted her head to the side, ear up, so she could hear more clearly.

"Grey Wardens… a choice. Without the archdemon... Weisshaupt has destroyed itself. It is no more."

The words were choppy and difficult to make out, but the last statement made Nathaniel's stomach drop. He clenched his jaw. Unable to decipher anything else over the laughing, Nathaniel assessed the man's comrades did not believe him. Some comments about the Inquisitions part in avoiding the next Blight were followed with invitations to discuss business plans.

"Don't talk now." Leaning in the table, Nathaniel spoke in a low tone to Philippa and Hale. "We can discuss this at the inn. Finish your drinks, we need to move."

The three of them finished their beverages. Smooth and fruity, the unique wine was exclusive to the region near the Silent Plains. If they had more time, he could have enjoyed another glass, but the three of them left the bar to hurry back to the scheduled meeting place.

Alistair, Fiona, and Hawke had already arrived. The rain had subsided, but dark clouds still covered the evening sky.

Wishing to hurry and discuss their findings, Nathaniel's brow raised as he looked to Alistair, "Did you find a better inn?"

"I did not." Alistair gave an annoyed shrug and Nathaniel suspected he was disappointed with his results.

Holding back a smirk, Nathaniel followed them into the establishment. As a group they ate at the inn while they spoke. Alistair's party found similar results from their search of message boards and found the tavern patrons' conversations only echoed what they had already read. Nathaniel explained the conversation at the lower-end tavern.

"But how would disagreements among the Order cause Weisshaupt to fall?" Alistair asked no one in particular, avoiding Nathaniel's eyes. His voice lowered when he spoke key details so as not to be overheard.

"The bond is weak," Fiona muttered from her corner of the table. "It's like the Veil that divides us and the Fade. When it is not strong much is at stake."

Nathaniel's eyes narrowed on Fiona, but he did not speak up.

 _"The name is not a coincidence."_ Garrett Hawke's summary given back at Vigil's Keep came to mind.

He had kept one of the details of the letter Hawke had delivered from Weisshaupt to himself, and despite his antics, Hawke had kept the information private too.

None asked to read what Hawke found and Nathaniel believed it better that way.

 _Find Fiona._ The letter had explained nothing else about the name, and he had wondered at first if it was only a coincidence. As they came closer to Weisshaupt the answer seemed clear. _Why was Weisshaupt searching for you, Fiona?_

Philippa patted her mouth with a napkin and sat back in her chair. "We knew all this already. We need to find the source of the bond before we can strengthen it. That is why we are on this mission."

"But what could the source be?" Hawke crossed his arms and looked toward the ceiling.

Nathaniel frowned, his lip nearly curling at Hawke. "We can worry about that on our way. I'm more concerned with what he meant by _a choice._ "

 _A choice._ His attention pulled from the conversation, realizing that Hale hadn't spoken up the entire meal. She sat further down the table, following along, interested and engaged, enjoying her food and drink in the process. But the typically lively young lady hadn't offered her unique interpretation so far this evening. As much as he loathed to admit it, her insight had been invaluable in the past.

Her gaze wrinkled and looked up from the conversation to find his. Brow creased, she stared back. Nathaniel cleared his throat and rose from his seat.

They divided into their rooms, each assuming their own at the inn. Alistair and Nathaniel still chose their quarters on opposite ends of the hallway. The rest filled in the space between.

* * *

Fiona exhaled when she shut the door behind her. The city made her nervous. Tevinter Imperium was a place no elf traveled to purposefully and certainly not alone. Though the Wardens, the Champion, and Alistair were her partners in this quest, she did not cease to feel like an outsider among them. Accidentally revealing her history as a Warden to Philippa had only caused tension with the other woman.

A knock at her door stalled her peaceful reflection.

"Fiona," Nathaniel Howe's voice rang from the hallway. "I'd like to speak with you."

Fiona sighed and turned to face the door. _Another interrogation._ She assumed his reason for approaching her.

She opened the door slowly, extending her arm to let Nathaniel enter. As she closed the entry and followed him into the room, she said, "Let me guess, you want to know what I did before I was Grand Enchanter."

The question had followed her everywhere on this trip, it was only time before Nathaniel asked. The Warden Commander stood with his arms crossed. His fist covered his mouth as he cleared his throat and shook his head.

"I know you were in the Circle." Nathaniel tilted his head to the side. "And I suspect before that you were a Grey Warden."

She didn't flinch. Eyes locked with Nathaniel's, Fiona paced a deep breath in. She had no words; no wish to confirm and not willing to lie, it left her with silence.

Nathaniel Howe continued, his eyes squinting as he spoke. "Weisshaupt seemed to think you would know about the cure."

Fiona swallowed, a hapless attempt to diminish her rising discomfort. Fears around admitting her past with the Wardens had nothing to do with her service for the Order. Her brief stint in the Order of the Grey ended with an accidental cure and pregnant with the king of Ferelden's child. The details of her departure from the Grey promised to compromise her most significant secret.

She counted her heartbeats and her hands wrung between them. It's true. I was a Grey Warden. I was cured, and I know nothing of what ails the order."


	19. Curse of Kings

The drizzle resumed once the Wardens found their rooms, and Alistair watched rain collect in puddles in the street from his window. The organized city resembled nothing of Ferelden. Paved streets and tall buildings sprawled around the inn where they stayed, preventing Alistair from viewing the countryside beyond the overbearing constructs. Despite the excess of manicured foliage, Vyrantium failed to exhibit anything natural. Magic radiated from each block of stone and Alistair didn't trust it, but he didn't trust much these days.

He turned from the window, retiring from his active distrust of Tevinter, and found his bag with his necessary grooming supplies. After insisting on growing a beard on his return to Denerim from Skyhold and once the hair filled out, free of awkward patches, he had appeased Caoilainn by keeping it trimmed and oiled. Investing in a collection of tools and products exclusively used on his facial hair gave a sense of satisfaction. But caring for the beard had been inconvenient in his current expedition, and his short beard had grown longer and disheveled. Worse, he found it prone to collecting the dirt and dust that floated in the air.

With a tired sigh he made his way to the sink basin in his room to wash up. Cool water touched his face and he closed his eyes, removing the veil of fine dust that clung to his cheeks and hair. He dragged his hand down his face as he looked up, guiding excess water back to the basin and glancing into the small framed mirror on the wall of his quarters.

Droplets falling into the basin echoed the rainfall outside. Alistair stared at himself. He had aged, and the faded bruising on his face emphasized his weariness. Sad eyes framed by wrinkles stared back. The sloped nose and pensive smile nearly covered by his beard, the bristles of which followed his jaw and grew longer at his chin. Alistair recognized the features because he had seen this man before. _Maric._

He inhaled, standing straighter, studying his reflection. Where Maric's blond hair was lined with silver, Alistair's was red; hazel eyes replaced the blue he had seen in pictures of the former king. Minor differences aside, Alistair was a spitting image of his father. _If he can even be called father._

The king so loved and admired by his people had abandoned Alistair in Redcliffe with just enough influence on his upbringing to keep him safe. Even when Alistair discovered his father was the king that cold day in Denerim, Maric made no attempts to speak to him, and the following year, Alistair was sent to the monastery. A few years from that Maric disappeared at sea, leaving Cailan to lead the kingdom. _Unwillingly promoting me from the illegitimate spare to the heir._

But he recognized a sadness in the eyes of his reflection that he had seen in the king that day. _Are all kings cursed to be unhappy?_ Both men, past and present, were bound to forces beyond their control. The similarity unsettled him.

 _Or is this a curse upon my name?_

The piercing stare reflecting in the mirror wanted answers where there were none. Blinking, Alistair steadied himself with a breath and splashed his face with water again. His hands reached into his small bag of grooming tools to find a small pair of scissors. He leaned forward, selectively snipping the overgrown hairs to create an even line of his beard.

 _"You're the king, you make the rules."_ He remembered Caoilainn's statement before she had left him and returned to the Wardens. Words of anger and upset spilled in her desperation for him to take ownership of his power. The information fell on deaf ears at the time.

With a final snip to perfect his facial hair, Alistair located the ingredients to create a lather to shave his neck. Motions followed, one step after another, carefully sliding the blade along coarse skin to remove stubble. His thoughts returned to Caoilainn's declaration. _I will not follow in Maric's footsteps._

Alistair cleaned off the excess of lather, rinsed his beard once more, and dried it with a towel. Intent on the newfound ritual, he released a few drops of an expensive oil, this one he purchased in Nevarra City onto his fingers and massaged it into his beard. The spice and wood sent permeated. Brushing his beard down, he took a final look in the mirror to examine his work.

Whether the act of grooming or merely his perception had changed his appearance, the face staring back had altered to his own. Bemused with the shift, his mind playing tricks on him, he chuckled and turned from the basin.

Unrushed, he strolled to the desk in the corner of the room and separated the stationary the inn provided. The crisp blank parchment invited him to write. He dipped the nib of a quill into a bottle of ink and drafted a letter to Caoilainn.

* * *

Not a single cloud covered Tevinter's afternoon sky and the sun's persistence toasted Alistair's skin. Wandering chilly breezes through the arid climate forced him to remove his cloak and then put it back on repeatedly as they traveled. The continuous shifting of the other group members in their saddles echoed his discomfort and he withheld from complaining about the symptoms that burdened them all.

Ahead of Alistair, Nathaniel shielded his eyes and looked toward the sky. He made a solemn face, raising a brow in thought before speaking, "We should see the Imperial Highway by morning. Val Dorma is not far."

Hawke snickered, lifting his waterskin to his mouth.

"What?" Nathaniel grumbled, leaning to view Hawke a few horses over.

Witnessing the exchange with curiosity, Alistair lifted his head to overhear the dialogue.  
Hawke gave a dismissive shrug, speaking loud enough for the entire group to hear. "It's fantastic news." He made a circle with the index finger of his other hand. "That is, unless we've been going in circles this whole time, right?"

The group had been riding west for two days since Vyrantium City, venturing through the Tevinter countryside as a detour back to the road. Hawke's teasing revisited the incident in the Silent Plains that prolonged their time in the desert.

Philippa called over from behind them. "Shut up, you ass."

"It's fine." Nathaniel lifted his hand to calm the sorceress before addressing Hawke again. "You are welcome to lead if you believe you are better suited." His hand extended in front of him to the expanse of nothing; desolate and rocky terrain spread out from where they rode.

"I prefer to lead in certain situations," Garrett paused and smirked in amusement before continuing, "and I'm more than willing to let someone else take charge… when it's a good _fit_. I'm sure you can relate." He gave a casual wink and nodded his head in mock respect to Nathaniel. "You go right ahead and lead us to the highway, Commander."

Both startled and amused, Alistair's jaw dropped, and he raised his eyebrows in astonishment. The exchange ended with a bitter laugh from Nathaniel who rolled his eyes and heeled his horse to trot ahead without a reply. Hawke continued his exaggerated smile to the other man's back as the young elven woman growled at him.

"Bollocks, Hawke!" Smacking his arm with the back of her hand, Hale shook her head, cheeks red. She directed her horse away from him.

"Oh, come back!" The mage called after her with a light laugh. "I'm adaptable! We can all take turns _leading_."

Alistair wrinkled his nose. "I'll pass."

"Like we would invite you anyway." Hawke flashed his smile at Alistair as he followed closer to Hale.

Philippa rose her voice over the movement of horses. "Do stop talking, Garrett. You wouldn't be able to lead us out of a ditch or into a bedroll if you had a map."

"Are you willing to bet on that?" Puckering his lips toward Philippa, he made a loud kissing noise. She scoffed and rode to Hale's side, not offering a reply to Hawke. He noticed the surrounding vacant circle as the rest of the party ignored him.

Alistair chuckled to himself and returned his thoughts to his next letter to Caoilainn when they arrived in Val Dorma. Depending on the state of Weisshaupt, it could be his last for an indeterminate amount of time.

* * *

"The fuck, Hawke!?" Hale blurted as soon as soon as she stepped into Hawke's recently erected tent. She had not offered her help, letting him set his tent alone while she had wandered off; but both understood she would sleep in his bed when they could not rest in an inn. Still some distance from the Imperial Highway and Val Dorma, this was another of those nights.

"Which one?" Hawke chuckled as he loosened his belt, ready to relax for the night and uninterested in arguing with the woman. He had anticipated her anger since the dialogue with Nathaniel that day; she had not spoken to him since. He raised a brow as he glanced at her. "The fuck who has undoubtedly pissed you off for something, or the _fuck_ whose bed you're sleeping in tonight." He waggled his eyebrows.

Hale lowered her voice and leaned closer to him. "Don't mean you've gotta talk about it with him. Don't fuckin' tease him."

"Him?" A forced wrinkle of his brow feigned confusion before nodding in exaggerated understanding. "Oh, your Commander. I'm certain he's aware we're romping around, Hale. I was only trying to lighten the mood."

"Fuck that," she crossed her arms and leaned one leg, "you were trying to piss him off."

"Guilty," he admitted, raising his hands in forfeit to her accusation. "But Nathaniel understands that's what I do. Has it really taken you this long to figure it out?"

Hale exhaled through her nose and she pressed her lips together in an angry pout.

"Look," Hawke sat down on his bedroll, only glancing up to Hale periodically as he removed his boots, "everyone knows you sleep in my tent each night and I'm sure they've heard what we do. I don't know if you sleep with me to make him jealous or only out of convenience and honestly, I don't care."

She uncrossed her arms and put them on her hips, inhaling to give a harsh reply.

Hawke interrupted, unwilling to allow the woman's vitriol to determine his actions. "I enjoy being an asshole." He removed his last boot and leaned back to look up at her. "But that's what you like about me, isn't it? So don't act surprised when I act like one."

Her frown deepened. She knew the statement was true, but her visible anger did not subside. She pointed a finger at him. "Don't talk 'bout me like I'm just some _good fucking fit_ you both shagged _._ "

With a sarcastic laugh, Hawke stretched on his bedroll and patted the soft blankets beside him. "What are you then? What am I to you? Let's not argue about semantics when we could be doing what we do so well. At best, we are friends with benefits and the benefits are good."

Hale sneered in disdain, lip curling. "You think I like fucking you?"

The words hit, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Face hot and dizzy, Hawke waited for her to continue, but the young woman looked startled by her own words as well. He eventually managed to mutter, "Excuse me?"

She snorted, her mouth opening as if annoyed she had to repeat herself. "Yeah. Yer head's too far up yer own arse! You're a bad plough." The curt statement stung.

Hawke leaned forward to stand, keeping his eyes locked with hers. "That's a lie and you know it."

He had it on several accounts that the information was inaccurate. Yet, petty as it may be, Hale's declaration insulted his pride and it was inconsistent with her actions. Feeling his face growing hotter, he struggled to keep his tone calm as he reminded her, "You initiate it with me every fucking night."

He made no effort to understand her. Callow logic determined Hawke as the fault for her displeasure when she always brought about their forays. The insinuation that his technique was to blame made his blood boil.

She tapped her forehead with the heel of her palm. "'Cause I'm the dumb sod who thought you might _magically_ get better and those other ladies ain't my type."

"Bullshit." Hawke rose from the floor of his tent but stayed a safe distance from her "It's not on me if you're too immature to say something sooner. I can't read your bloody mind."

She laughed derisively and extended her hands in front of her face. "Only a daft arse needs to be told he's bad at ploughing!"

"No," Hawke pointed his finger at her this time, "you're indecisive. Grow up, Hale." He bit his tongue on adding more insults, desiring to throw his own critiques on her bedroom techniques, but he determined the juvenile nature of tallying their successes and failures.

"Fuck you!" She screamed, her fists balling by her sides.

"No thanks." With a cynical, smug frown, he shook his head. "Go find someone else to make bad decisions for you. Fancy we're in Tevinter, I'm sure there are plenty who'd be willing."

Her mouth opened, and her arms tensed to the point she trembled. Had she stood closer, Hawke was certain she would have punched him. Instead, she snarled without words. The look of disdain in her eyes could not be misinterpreted before she left his tent.

Hawke released a long exhale, tracing back the steps of his conversation. Not quick to anger, the experience unnerved him and depleted his energy. _She's a kid,_ he reminded himself, rationalizing her brash immaturity and fault for their argument. Unwilling to overthink the matter, he finished setting the inside of his tent before resting for the night.

* * *

The fiery pit in Hale's chest churned as heat bubbled up to her cheeks. Beneath his witty comeback, he had equated her to a slave and she desired nothing more than to make him suffer. But she couldn't, distance in the small tent prevented the blow, she lacked the will to step closer to him even to land her fist against his face. Within the raging fire burning her chest, Hale felt regret for sleeping with this man. Turning from Hawke, she huffed with each step, stomping from his tent without a destination. Chill air smacked her face when she emerged.

Hale gasped, grinding her teeth to save from screaming into the air and calling the attention of the camp. In her silence, voices caught her ear over the sounds of the firepit crackling. The firelight wavered as someone stepped in front of it. Curious and cautious steps carried Hale nearer, gaining a better view before revealing her presence.

The outline of the tall man was unmistakable. His long nose and loose hair made her heart flutter. _Nate._

But his counterpart surprised Hale. She squinted her eyes to clarify her vision. Short hair tucked behind pointed ears, Fiona sat down and leaned in to hear Nathaniel. On her turn to reply, she spoke softly.

Jealousy coiled around Hale's chest. It held tight, and she struggled to pace shallow breaths. Every suspicious effort to tune her ears to their conversation failed. She couldn't discern any fragments of what they said. Grateful the shadows of the tents hid her, Hale considered her next steps.

An unmistakable voice rose above the fire. It started throaty like an exhaling breath, but Nathaniel cleared his throat. "Warden?" His question reached into the darkness with measured concern.

 _He almost said Hale… or Huntress._ She heard the slip and caught her breath as her heart sank. It did not surprise her that Nate had sensed her presence, but his question lacked the coldness that had prevailed since the Plains. Instead, she heard caring… and pity. _Must've heard us._

She stood in silence, squeezing her eyes shut, desperate and dreading the sound of his voice again. It did not come, and eventually, she heard their whispering resume. Frustrated and angry, she blinked away the lonely sadness that stung her eyes.

Silent steps carried her on the rocky land, balancing her footsteps in the dark to her only option of a bed for the night.

"Philippa?" She whispered from outside the woman's tent, hoping no one else heard. "You still up?"

"Hale?" The woman answered with a loud reply, not bothering to match Hale's volume. "Come in, child. I can't talk to you from the other side of a tent flap."

The title of child made Hale's brow furrow. She closed her eyes again, taking a deep breath in and out, swallowing her pride, and entering Philippa's tent.

Sitting on her bedroll, Philippa had a large book in front of her. A candle burned near her bed and a lantern hung from the center tent pole. Philippa's braids were secured to the top of her head, but her face still appeared pristine. Smooth skin and large brown eyes, free of any makeup stared up to Hale.

She bowed her head. "Ma'am," stalling, Hale stammered, "I didn't mean to bother-"

"Dear girl," the woman waved her hand in front of her, "get on with it. What do you want?" She placed a marker in her tome before closing it.  
 _Dear girl._ Hale bit the inside of her cheek, refraining from rolling her eyes, and swallowed. "Ma'am," she attempted again and sighed. "Fuck all. Could I sleep here?"

Philippa sat her book down beside her, brow wrinkling as she studied Hale's down-trodden demeanor. "You want to sleep in my bed?"

Hale's face wrinkled in apology and her shoulders slouched. "I don't mean anything by it. I can't sleep in that arsehole's tent anymore."

"Tell me you decided to leave and that good for nothing lecher didn't kick you out." Her eyes squinted, evaluating Hale's reaction. "I'll make that bastard miserable if…"

Nodding, embarrassed with the circumstances, Hale mumbled, "I left." With a weak smile, she added, "told him he's a bad fuck 'cause his head's up his arse."

"Good girl. I heard the two of you yelling, but I couldn't make out the words. He deserved it, no doubt." She crossed her legs to make room for Hale to sit down. "Fine. You may sleep here." Philippa held up a finger in warning. "On the condition you let me brush out that nest of hair. Maker only knows what's living in it."

Though unpleasant, the terms of the agreement were tolerable. Hale muttered, "I guess."

"That's right. Now go get your bric-a-brac from your horse and bring it in here. Then I'll brush out that woefully neglected hair of yours." Philippa's hand waved Hale away and she returned to her book.

As she was told, Hale gathered her belongings from her horse and brought them to Philippa's tent. She removed the outer layers of her armor and followed the directions from Philippa to sit in front of her. The woman brushed her hair, starting from the ends and working her way up with more delicacy than Hale anticipated from the brassy woman. Philippa was careful and caring and asked about Hale's problems with the Commander as she worked.

Hale resisted the line of conversation at first, giving minimal information, avoiding any depth to the subject. But as Philippa brushed out persistent knots, Hale felt her shoulders loosening, the tightness in her chest eased.

"He only fought the fucking king 'cause he still has it for the Bitch Queen." She voiced her fear to the woman behind her. Listening, Philippa guided the hairbrush through Hale's hair one last time.

"There, there." Philippa tapped Hale's shoulder, issuing her to turn around. Cross-legged, Hale faced Philippa who knowingly put her hands on Hale's shoulders. "Dear child, don't be so stubborn. Nathaniel hasn't had whatever _it_ is for anyone but you. The current and former Warden Commanders respected each other and had their own unique way of showing it."

"Shite on it." Scrunching her face, Hale frowned. "Nate knew it was wrong or he wouldn't've cared if I ploughed Hawke. It's the same sodding thing."

The sorceresses delicate hand reached for the book beside her. She smirked to herself as she opened the book, not looking up to Hale as she posed another question. "Would it bother you if Nathaniel slept with Caoilainn again?"

"Yeah, but-"

"No buts. Hush child. You'd mind because you had _it_ for him too." Glancing to the small space on the pillow next to her, Philippa tilted her head. "Go to sleep now. I won't have any more of you insulting the commanders."

Hale did as she was told. Putting out the flame in the lantern before crawling into the standard issue Warden bedroll. The woolen blankets did not offer the same luxury as Hawke's bed, but the fabric felt familiar, comfortable. Lingering scents of old leather and canvas reminded her of Vigil's Keep.

The sorceress kept her candle flickering, staying up to read from the text perched in her lap. Hale waited, doubting the integrity of sharing a bed with someone holding no intention or obligation of sex. But the mood did not change; each woman remained in her bedclothes and when Hale's side brushed Philippa's it did not initiate sex. Although Hale found it odd and unusual, her mind couldn't dwell. Her eyelids grew heavy and she drifted off to sleep to the sound of the candle crackling.

Movement woke her, and Hale's guard rose, opening her eyes to darkness and defending her body with her fists. She registered no assailant; nothing attacked her in the night. But beside her, Philippa turned. A moment later she turned again.

Hale's tired eyes rolled, annoyed with Philippa's fidgeting. Attempting to make space between them, Hale tried to go back to sleep.

The sleep-ridden whimper escaping the sorceress preceded her whispering "no." Philippa sat up a moment later, gasping quietly.

Eyes closed, Hale pretended to sleep, sensing the movement of the woman beside her. Philippa whispered to herself, cursing a moment as she sat up in bed. She let her head fall in her hands and she hissed in pain before reaching for something behind her bedroll.

The air changed and even with her eyes closed, Hale could not mistake the gentle tug of Veil being crossed and Philippa pulling magic from the Fade. The slosh of liquid followed, and Hale heard the woman swallow.

With a paced exhale, Philippa placed her object down and lowered back to bed. Her breathing deepened a few moments later. Still, void of the tossing and turning from a moment prior, Philippa had fallen into a restful sleep.

 _The Warden sickness._ Hale suspected, recognizing the symptoms after seeing the first-hand cases at Vigil's Keep and listening to the group talk on about the affliction for the last few weeks. Whatever Philippa drank must have protected her from the disease, but knowing the mage to deny propriety, there was a reason she kept the remedy hidden.

Anxious thoughts racked her mind and followed into her to sleep; her options of confronting Philippa or telling Nate seemed equally unpleasant.


	20. Reverence

Boredom failed to describe the state of Caoilainn in her mandatory bedrest. Morrigan had ordered the queen to cease her routine, blacksmithing, and wandering the palace in general. Left to travel from her bed to the washroom to her office, Caoilainn could only migrate around the royal floor with most of her time spent lying down.

Morrigan's instructions required Caoilainn to be gentle with her body. The bleeding had not alarmed the witch, but Morrigan admitted it a sign of a complicated pregnancy. Despite Caoilainn having now passed the date Morrigan stated as critical, the date after which Caoilainn could lessen her worry, the witch insisted on prolonged rest. As much as Caoilainn loathed the order, she obeyed. She had no desire to risk the pregnancy.

Forced to monitor what she ate, drank, the amount of time she spent on her feet and the position in which she laid, the details of pregnancy multiplied, along with the number of pillows she needed to rest comfortably. A single pillow for her head no longer sufficed. She also needed a one between her knees as she rested on her side, and another for her cling to for security. Other pillows supported her back, keeping her on her side as she slept. And when she woke, the nest stacked behind her, so she could sit upright on the bed.

When it came to her work, professionalism could not preclude comfort. She swapped one loose shift for another each morning and abandoned her notoriously complicated plait in favor of leaving her hair down. Meetings came to her, and she weathered the humiliation. Barefoot yet dignified, she sat at her desk as Adalyn or Teagan delivered news. When she noticed herself overcompensating, offering her input and instruction beyond what was necessary, she bit her tongue. Fears of appearing desperate echoed in the back of her mind, among other undisclosable worries.

When the meetings were over, and her other visitors gone, boredom returned and with it came anxiety. For ten days she tried and failed to occupy her mind. No book within the palace contained a plot engaging enough, nor was the paltry attempt at embroidery.

On the eleventh day, tired of biding time reading a book with half attention, she decided to write. Her meetings had ceased for the day and she expected no other visitors. The waning afternoon light provoked her to ignite more lanterns. She moved without rush from her daybed to her desk and eased back into her seat. Appreciation for the order of her workplace showed in the neat pile of blank parchment sitting beside an inkwell on one corner of her desk. A wooden divider sorted her mail rested on the other corner, its items separated by importance.

The crisp and clean scent of her stationary permeated as she placed a blank sheet in the center of her desk. Pristine in its imperfection, the unmarked tan paper was characterized by varying neutral shades. She inked her quill. The nib touched the parchment, forming the first letter without any preparation for the draft. A downward line formed at an angle, followed by another in the opposite direction; a horizontal dash crossed over them.

The other letters flowed from the first. _Alistair._

Warmth filled her as she stared at the name of her letter's intended recipient. But when she continued the next line, no message seemed enough. Her love failed to conceive adequate words. None of it matter; any letter she created would not reach him.

She had still not received communication, no letter, and no verbal message to indicate Alistair's safety. Fears around the pregnancy were compiled by her dread around his silence. Worse, he was unreachable, potentially in danger, hurt or captured by raiders, injured by any of the creatures stalking the desolate Nevarran or Tevene countryside. Having never visited the other nations, she relied on memories of the sketches of deserts and dust storms, and vacant, rocky land that filled her academic books.

 _He could have nothing left to say._ She thought of his last letter.

 _" _Do you really think I didn't consider being with others while you were gone? I did. So many times, the opportunity presented itself. But I couldn't bring myself to do that. I wanted to prove you wrong…."__

The section had hit her with a blow. Vindictive words succeeded in hurting her, but she rationalized his behavior. Without her to help him navigate his vehemence, she considered he might decide to give up. A final decision to end the relationship would not deserve a letter if he deemed her unworthy.

 _Or he could be dead._ When the possibility had arisen in the past, she managed to focus on other fears. Returning to her concerns of the potential loss of respect from her army, and whatever dignitaries might visit the palace while she was bedridden provided a reliable method. But now it was fruitless, and she felt dizzy.

Caoilainn dropped the quill in frustration, and it landed on the parchment. Ink dripped from nib to paper, over Alistair's name. Gasping at her blunder, she licked the tip of her thumb and attempted to clean the large droplet, protecting the calligraphy. The delicate lines she had drawn, curves against paper, the crossed and dotted letters vanished. She smeared his name.

"Damn it!" She cursed herself and pushed the parchment away, letting her elbows set on the table. Her forehead fell into her palms.

Face hot and heart racing, she sobbed silently. Her body shook, and her crying escalated. Racking sobs expelled all air from her lungs and when she tried to breathe, a familiar panic set in. Like an approaching wave, coldness overcame her. This had happened before; bouts of anxiety so extreme, and each time she had fainted.

Currently stranded on the upper floor of the palace, she dreaded the same outcome.

Panting, Caoilainn desperately trying to gather air as her heart pounded in her ears. Scared for her wellbeing and that of her child's, her sobs seemed uncontrollable. It felt an eternity, stuck in a loop of shallow inhales and frantic thoughts. She shut her eyes and pleaded. _Maker help me._

A knock came at the door, startling her from the panic-stricken cycle. She gasped.

"Your majesty," the voice spoke from beyond the door, "your messages have arrived."

Eyes still closed, she paused and caught herself. "Come in." The attendant brought the small stack of letters to Caoilainn and bowed. "Thank you," Caoilainn said, managing to hide the shaking in her voice.

The attendant left the room, leaving the door open, and Caoilainn relaxed. She left the stack of letters on her desk. Nearly three weeks had passed since she received her last letter from Alistair, and she dreaded the disappointment. Afraid of her own fear, she settled on reading the letters the next morning.

But the postmarked T on the top letter caught her eye. _Tevinter Imperium._

Her brow furrowed as she picked up the envelope, carefully breaking the blank wax seal and unfolding the parchment.

 _1 Haring 9:42  
Tevinter_

 _C,_

 _I'm sorry this took so long. I'm sorry for a lot of things. I can't believe by the time this reaches you, you'll be 3ish months along. How do you feel? Can you see any changes? I have so many questions and I'm left only imagining you._

 _We've finally made it to Tevinter after losing our path in the Silent Plains, thanks to the keen directions of the Warden Commander. The longer we travel, the more I see I am nothing like him. He's prideful, arrogant, definitely a Howe. I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted by whatever you saw in our differences. We are decidedly different._

The sentence was crossed out multiple times, but she could still decipher the words. Frowning, she rolled her eyes, annoyed that Alistair would continue to dwell on his anger and target her through his letters. But in his distance, she could not hold onto disdain. The stricken words held less bite and their effects quickly faded. She continued to read.

 _That doesn't matter. Something happened in the Plains, nothing important, but I realized I have not been myself. I've made mistakes. I seem to be good at that. I regret my poor choice of words in the last letter, among others, and I'm sorry for all of them._

 _You are what matters to me._

 _I wish I had put my hand on your belly, given it a kiss even once before I left. All I can do now is dream of you both. Maker's breath, even in my dreams you are beautiful._

 _Yours,_

 _A_

By the time she reached the end of the letter, a smile had crept onto Caoilainn's lips. Tears welled in her eyes, and relief washed over her. Ignoring the remnants of his resentment, she read the letter twice more, bypassing the section mentioning Nathaniel each time.

 _What happened in the Plains?_ The section jumped out at her. Alistair hid something, but she couldn't discern any subtext or hidden meaning. She settled on asking him when he returned.

With her mind at ease, the prominent stab of hunger pangs summoned her. With the first three months of her pregnancy over, Caoilainn's morning sickness had subsided, but she found herself hungry most of the time. Ten years as a Grey Warden did not prepare her for the insatiable hunger of pregnancy. Her food aversions had disappeared, but unique cravings continued, and it seemed no matter how much she ate, she was left unfulfilled.

Given the obligation of bedrest, she was forced to wait for food to be brought to her. On rare occasions, she pulled the ribbon in the hallway which connected to a bell on the main floor. Castle Cousland had a similar method of calling for the castle's staff built into the walls, and Caoilainn had vowed never to use it, but her recent predicament had required the exception in Denerim's Palace.

Unable to tell if her stomach grumbled from hunger or if the seedling was moving, she rubbed her belly. As the small bump had grown over the last few weeks, she found the act of applying mild pressure, caressing contact with her stomach soothed it. The pain subsided, and she sighed, closing her eyes as she mumbled to herself, "Thank the Maker."

 _The Maker._ A presence she had accepted without question from an early age, she acknowledged Chantry doctrine and applied the aspects of religion she found useful. Though she adhered to prominent Andrastian traditions more out of habit than faith, she refused to abide dogma. Alistair had always practiced his faith with more commitment, though she had valued his pragmatism.

In her solitude and desperation, when she had asked for the Maker's help in her state of panic, she found a fragment of relief. The results of admitting herself powerless and surrendering her pride contradicted her assumptions. It calmed her rather than harmed. Though the temptation to connect the small prayer with the arrival of Alistair's letter teased the edges of her mind, she refused to be gullible. It was nothing more than coincidence.

Despite her skepticism, she desired calmness again. With stabs of hunger subsided, she took advantage of the moment. Caoilainn walked to her bed and grabbed a pillow, something she had seen her mother do when she was young. Placing it on the ground at her bedside, Caoilainn knelt. The shift in her weight awoke the intermittent pain in her back and hips. It was dull and achy, but a break from the other instances when it felt sharp and deep. She placed a hand to her lower back as she lowered.

Elbows propped and hands clasped on her bed, she leaned in. Her forehead relaxed onto her entwined palms, and her neck eased. _I look like a fool._ Self-doubt and the certainty that she didn't know how to pray infringed upon the humbling moment. The posture attenuated the pillars of her successes, pride, strength, and fortitude. She felt small. Her arms twitched, preparing to plant on the bed to help her rise, abandoning this feeble attempt at homage, but she paused.

Eyes closed, she inhaled. _I'll try anything._ Amidst the boredom and madness from being stuck in her room, the need to alleviate her fears held a higher value than her pride. Her muscles loosened, she admitted her symbolic powerlessness, and the questions of her foolishness abated.

 _"_ Thank you."

She muttered aloud, unsure if it was directed to Andraste or the Maker or both. The two words sufficed to capture immense gratitude- for the pregnancy, including the literal growing pains that associated, the letter from Alistair and his apparent change of heart, and simply knowing that he was still alive.

 _What do I do now?_ With a pause, she listened to her breathing, waiting for some response, an indication her message was received. None came. She held her position, noticing the pillow accommodating to her knees and feeling the dense rug beneath. If she held the position too long, her knees would be sore.

Reciting the few sections of the Chant of Light she could remember seemed ingenuine, failing to capture the purpose for her prayer. Instead, she let the truth fall from her lips.

"I need help," she whispered and continued to her recurrent anxieties, exacerbated by her confinement. As she spoke, the sting in her eyes returned, relieved tears welling and sliding slowly down her cheeks. She settled back into silence.

In her improvised reverence, Caoilainn didn't hear the steps of someone entering her room. "Didn't Morrigan limit you to sitting or lying down, not to overexert yourself?"

Caoilainn's eyes opened and she looked over her shoulder to see Fergus in the doorway. Plates of food occupied both hands, bundles of napkins and silverware were tucked under his arm, and a moment later, the smell of seasoned chicken filled the room. The rumble in Caoilainn's stomach returned.

She exhaled in annoyance and put her hands on the bed to push herself up. The ache in her back called for support and she pressed her palm against it. She sneered in Fergus' direction. "Getting down here was easy. If you'll _help_ me, I won't have to exert myself standing up." The bite in her tone revealed her annoyance with his arrival.

Fergus chuckled, setting the food down on her desk and walking to Caoilainn's aid. "Bedrest must be that bad if it's brought you to pray and all. You look comfortable, at least." He scanned her sloppy attire and messy hair.

She snapped at him while he helped her, supporting under her arm and guiding her up from the floor. "What do you think, Fergus? I've been stranded up here with nothing to do, aside from the embarrassment of meetings with Teagan and Adalyn. I'm hungry all the time and the only thing I have to look forward to is when you, Morrigan, or the staff brings me meals."

"It was just a question." He gave a kind smile and gestured to her seat at the desk. "I don't know you to be the type to pray, that's all. Consider this meal a peace offering."

She huffed, sitting down and pulling the plate closer. Her mouth watered. "Fine, but only if you keep me company while I eat it."

"That was my plan since apparently, we only meet over food. I happened to bring the second plate for myself. Though I would not doubt you could eat all of it on your own." He sat down across from her.

"Shut up, Fergus." She rolled her eyes, as she separated the meat with the edge of her fork. "What took you so long today? Usually you come in the morning."

"If you must know, I was helping Lord Eddelbrek's...daughter move some things to her new home in Highever." Fergus' spoke matter-of-factly but kept his eyes on his food. She noticed his pause before disclosing the patron of his help.

"Oh… Maya or Mia, isn't it?" Caoilainn's brow arched. "I thought she lived in Antiva?"

"Maya, and yes. She lived there with her family until her husband passed away last year. He was in Orlais helping the Inquisition." He put a fork full of food into his mouth. Caoilainn assumed it a deliberate way to stop himself from talking.

"Lord Eddelbrek and father were close." The initial rush of hunger subsided after the first few bites. She took her knife to help her section her food.

"I'm sure that's why he asked me to help her." He nodded as he glanced up. It might have been the lighting, the setting sun shadowing her room, but it appeared Fergus was blushing.

"Right. He would ask you, the Teyrn of Highever, to help his adult, recently widowed daughter move into her new house," Caoilainn said, her words coated in teasing sarcasm.

"It was really nothing." He patted his mouth with his napkin. He dipped his head to the glass on her desk. "Where can I find water up here?"

Caoilainn pointed him in the direction of the washroom and he followed. Glass cups sat on the countertop, and she heard him fill one with water from a pitcher near the basin. Morrigan had required the staff provide Caoilainn with constant access to clean drinking water.

A sinister smile spread on Caoilainn's lips, flashing the whites of her teeth as he sat back down. "So, Maya… is she pretty? She's not much older than you, right?" She took another pointed bite of food.

"Nosy," he scoffed. "But yes, she is very pretty and only two years older." His forced frown turned to a smile. "But I didn't come here to talk about her or myself. Are _you_ all right?"

She thought about the question, looking past Fergus to the windows. The sun had almost set, shades of a deep purple bled to black. The lanterns in her room now seemed brighter.

"In some ways," she answered, her gaze traveling from the window to her brother. Knowing no other answer than the truth would help her or appease him, she admitted her difficulty. "In others, I am absolutely terrified."

Fergus reached across the table for her hand. "You and the baby are healthy. Morrigan said so herself. You have nothing to be afraid of."

Caoilainn shook her head to interrupt him, pulling her hand away. "It's not that, at least not now. The hunger, the back pain, the inconveniences all remind me that it's true. I'm still pregnant." By the end of her sentence, her eyes glistened. "But he might not come back."

"Alistair's alive, sis. I got a letter from him today." Fergus looked toward the pile of letters on her desk with concern.

The concept had not occurred to her, that Alistair might write letters to the others he summoned to her aid while he was away. But her curiosity for whatever communication the men might hold did not press her to question Fergus on the subject. She respected Alistair's privacy.

"I did too." Her somber words echoed. "But it could be the last, or the next one. I have so much to say to him and I might never get the chance. I despise this silence, not knowing, isolation. It's unbearable."

"It will be over soon." Fergus pressed his lips together, considering his response. The look comforted Caoilainn, reminding her of their father.

She waited, not disrupting the distant look in his eye.

Sniffing, his nose twitched. "When I left for Ostagar, Oriana feared I might not come back. Every time we would be apart she listed all the ways I should keep myself safe."

"I'm sorry, Ferg. You don't have to-"

"It's fine, Caoilainn. This actually helps." His response was stern but caring. He nodded to her. "Oriana knew that I could take care of myself, but that's not why she insisted on the reminders. She was telling me to come back, that she loved me, that she couldn't see her life without me. Maker." He laughed, quickly blinking away tears as he glanced toward the ceiling.

Witness to her brother's pain, Caoilainn felt her eyes watering. The depth of his hurt was palpable and resonated within her now more than ever. But she swallowed her paranoid and preemptive grief for Alistair, making room to be with Fergus in his loss of Oriana. Her hand reached across the desk toward him this time.

Fergus sighed, a teary chuckle escaping him as he squeezed her palm. "But I already knew those things. I had already seen the words in her posture, the way she carried herself. I felt it in her kisses for _days_ preceding when I left."

His gaze glossed over and found the wall behind Caoilainn. She recognized the bittersweet longing reflecting in his eyes. Still unfamiliar with the tender side of her brother, Caoilainn remained silent, unsure the most appropriate reply.

Her answer was unneeded. Fergus blinked again and returned to her. "I know you two were fighting before he left. But believe me, Caoilainn, as much as I don't want to think about it," he smirked through his tears and wrinkled his face in playful disgust, "if Alistair's love for you is even a fraction of my love for Oriana, there's nothing you could profess in a letter or aloud that he doesn't already know."

 _If only that were true._ Her brow furrowed, considering all the secrets and lies she kept from Alistair over their years together. Too many times, she had confessed ugly truths that could not be left hidden, witnessing the disappointment on his face. The look had ingrained in her mind, and her heart ached recalling it.

Fergus squeezed her hand, calling her back to the room. "We all make mistakes. It just takes some of us longer than others to learn from them. Fortunately, love has an incredible way of helping us _all_ understand that. That's why he keeps writing you." Releasing her hand, he picked up his silverware again. "Now we should probably eat the food I so generously brought up for us, so I can go get you another plate."

Unable to resist the shred of hope his words planted in her fears, she smiled and wiped away the moisture from her eyes. She returned to her plate and their conversation carried on to lighter topics.

The next day, Morrigan lifted Caoilainn's bedrest sentence.


	21. Weisshaupt

Vyrantium, 1 Haring, 9:42

 _"_ _It's true. I was a Grey Warden. I was cured, and I know nothing of what ails the order."_

 _Fiona's admission rang through the silence in her room at the inn. Aside from occasional scuffles and muted chatter in the hall, the location remained peaceful._

 _Dumbfounded, Nathaniel stared slack-jawed at the woman. He had anticipated her experience as a Warden; the pieces fit together as her knowledge of the order exceeded what any non-Warden could understand. But her curt reply to his question opposed the impression he had of the passive and agreeable mage._

 _Expression unchanged, bold in its neutrality, she questioned, "Did Philippa tell you?" Her wringing hands belied her confidence._

 _A wry laugh escaped him. "Philippa knew about this?" He said as he took a step further into her room and turned around to face her. Nathaniel's arms crossed again, frustrated by news of the women's collusion._

 _Fiona nodded, modest in her demeanor. "Only since the Plains. I insisted she kept my secret."_

 _"_ _Damn it, Fiona." The words slipped, but he kept his cursing to a loud whisper. "You didn't think this information could be helpful? You could have told_ me _in private instead of Philippa."_

 _"_ _It's a past I'd rather forget, Commander."_

 _"_ _Yet here you are, a cured Warden, aiding us on a mission to rescue the entire Order. The letter Hawke found at Weisshaupt said your name; he suspected it was you they were looking for." He couldn't withhold the annoyance seeping through his tone._

 _"_ _I do not understand most of the decisions Weisshaupt makes." Fiona sighed, sitting on the edge of her bed. "I have no special information for you or for them."_

 _"_ T _hat doesn't explain why they were looking for you."_

 _As if he was not a guest in her room, she unlaced her boots with only intermittent eye contact. "Perhaps after 30 years, the secret of my cure has been revealed. I still don't understand how it happened." Fiona glanced up to Nathaniel. A frustrated edge to her voice lingered. "I had not been a Warden long, Commander. My departure from the Order had little impact on the bond."_

 _The news disheartened him. Nathaniel had hoped with this revelation, a missing piece of information would connect the secrets of the Warden sickness, the impairments of the Grey Warden bond, taking them one step closer to repairing the Order and preparing them for what they would find in Weisshaupt._

 _"_ _Nathaniel," he sighed, sitting at a chair near the desk in her room. His thumb and middle finger pinched the bridge of his nose. "You can call me Nathaniel. We're going to Weisshaupt blind. I need more information, Fiona. Tell me what happened to you."_

 _Fiona inhaled. Her dark eyes locked with his. He recognized the look. She was considering her options. Whether to say anything and if so, how much. After a moment, she tucked her short black hair behind both ears, took another breath and spoke._

 _She wove a story of an initial interaction with the Architect, the same intelligent darkspawn Nathaniel had met when he was conscripted by Caoilainn. She mentioned the names of those she traveled with, glancing over details of betrayal and death. Nathaniel noticed a fondness in her tone when she mentioned Duncan and something else when she spoke of King Maric. Nathaniel couldn't place it._

 _When she discovered she was cured, free from the Calling, the Wardens were dismayed. She explained traveling to Weisshaupt where they conducted experiments that provided no explanations and failed attempts at her rejoining. Finally, she left and pursued her life in the Circle._

 _And now she was going back. In a few days, they would reach Weisshaupt. The heart of the Order of the Grey and source for their bond._

* * *

Solas, 15 Haring, 9:42

Nathaniel laid back on his cot, finally given a chance to reflect on their findings in Weisshaupt and what he feared they faced ahead. Two weeks had passed since Vyrantium, forcing them to backtrack from Weisshaupt, traveling southeast along the Imperial Highway until they reached the town of Solas, just north of the Silent Plains. They had camped along the highway most of the way, not traveling off course to find cities with inns. They moved faster but faced more challenges than they had the other direction. Thieves, far more advanced than the clumsy bandits in Ferelden, attempted to ransack their tents on multiple occasions.

Exhausted from the journey, even the simple cot felt an upgrade from the rocky earth of Tevinter. With his boots and outer armor removed, Nathaniel allowed himself to relax, a foreign feeling to his body after the hectic travels. A new sense of urgency had overtaken the group since they fled from Weisshaupt, but it left them with little time to convene about their findings in the fortress.

 _Weisshaupt, 6 Haring, 9:42_

 _The fertile land had faded. Creeks dried, and the rocky land turned to dusty, cracking steppes. A few days from Vyrantium, they stayed in Val Dorma and woke early for their last leg of Tevinter. A not-so-easy day and a half ride carried them from the Imperium and into the Blight worn Anderfels._

 _Dust storms roared at a lesser intensity than the Silent Plains but obligated their slower pace. When the dust settled, the glaring absence of resources forced gratitude for the cool temperatures. The group savored occasional sips from their waterskins, mindful of the consumption of their stores and the needs of their horses._

 _Intermittent sunlight shining between the steppes dwindled as the silhouette of the fortress appeared, protruding from a severed butte. Sharp spires of the stronghold mirrored the jagged edges of rock from which it emerged. Each stride closer to the Grey Warden headquarters defined more edges and pillars of the building, and the path carved into the rocks cleared._

 _Apprehensive but intent, the travelers pursued their destination. No signs of activity greeted them, no noise arose from the building aside from the whistling of wind around the steepled turrets. It continued as they ventured in. Thick layers of dust coated the walkways and walls, weighing down the tapestries hung to commemorate Warden victories._

 _"_ _We should split up and search the grounds," Nathaniel said to the party, advising they divide to find clues of the events leading to Weisshaupt's current state. The information would indicate the group's next steps._

 _None argued, and they went separate ways, searching the ends of the dirty, disheveled corridors. With attention to each room, Nathaniel took his time. Trepidation led to heavy steps through a small courtyard in the center. Untrimmed and withering plants lined the walls by broken and toppled benches. The scent of burnt flesh barely masked the thick, rotting stench of death. Nate wrinkled his nose. Dimming light shadowed what he identified as the source of the smell in the corner of the courtyard. He stepped to a brazier in the center and lit the kindling with flint._

 _The meager refuse of tinder seethed, hissing in its reluctance to light. Nathaniel rolled his eyes and looked around for more kindling. He improvised, stepping over broken benches to reach the dying ornamental plants. He pulled them by the roots and tossed them into the brazier. Another strike of flint lit them. They blazed, smoky and fragrant but quick to fire. He added firewood from a nearby stack._

 _The fire illuminated the courtyard, shining light on the pile of charred bodies. He did not look away. A feeble attempt at a pyre failed to reduce the bodies to ash, and blue and silver remnants of Warden uniforms accented the soot and coal. His eyes scanned the pile. Wood rested on and between the bodies, the ground had not been cleared to make room for the pyre. It had been rushed, left to burn without an attendant._

 _A disapproving grunt caught Nathaniel's attention. He looked up to find Hale stop before entering an adjacent hallway to the courtyard. Her head shook, lips pulling to a frown, arms crossing over her body, hugging herself. For a second, he wondered if she disliked the sight of dead Wardens or if she was simply cold. As night fell, the temperature had grown cooler in the Anderfels than in Tevinter._

 _His efforts to ignore her, to focus on his work and keep his anger at bay waxed and waned. Sometimes he felt bad for her, other times he loathed even the thought of her presence. Unaccustomed to feeling jealous, he was frustrated with himself for the wasted energy. Worse, she always seemed to find her way back to the forefront of his mind._

 _He had discovered the end of her forays with Hawke when he noticed Hale's newfound politeness toward Philippa. Having developed the habit of keeping his tent removed from the rest, Nathaniel missed whatever late-night conversations or sound effects the other group members made with each other. He didn't ask for details, but he spotted Hale entering Philippa's tent the night after Val Dorma._

 _Hawke's behavior had become even more obnoxious. The overt flirting he once had with Hale had disappeared, he no longer made Philippa the target of his teasing, even his cockiness had darkened. He made more remarks about their likely doom rather than jabs at his companions._

 _Hale's eyes darted from the failed pyre to Nathaniel. Bright green irises marked by redness showed exhaustion, but the shrewd crease in her brow insisted on her resoluteness. She stared hard for a moment before hugging herself tighter, rolling her eyes, and turning to walk away._

 _Despite knowing her intimately for nearly a year, the woman still confused him. Her reticence opposed her notorious veracity, and he disliked not knowing what to make of it. He decided best to leave it alone. His brow wrinkled and his palm rose to his forehead, massaging his temples to allay the early signs of a tension headache._

 _After a moment, he walked on, searching other rooms for information about the Wardens' illness, their demise and the whereabouts of those remaining. Displays of weapons and armor were barren, stripped of their valuables whether by the Wardens themselves upon departure or by looters after the Wardens had left._

 _He passed a large mural of a griffon bearing an armor-clad Warden. Brown smears marked the artwork, he could not discern if made from blood or dirt. Beyond the mural, large arching doors opened to a massive library. Floor to ceiling shelves created long rows, filled with more books than he had seen in one place in his entire life. Stained glass windows stretched along the walls to the domed to roof. He had heard of the library when he joined the Wardens, known to be one of the most extensive and exclusive libraries in all Thedas._

 _Now it was in disarray. Books scattered the floors and loose sheets of paper littered around them. Dust covered all of it, and he discerned much of it was missing. A glass monument in the center lay broken. Nathaniel stepped forward, the bookshelves reaching up to the vaulted ceilings on either side. He approached the monument._

 _The cast of a body lay on the floor._ Garahel, _Nathaniel recalled the stories of the Warden who ended the Fourth Blight. A panel on the floor confirmed his assessment. The tomb of Garahel held a cast of the soldier's body, donned in the armor he wore when he ended the Blight. But the armor was missing from the cast, as well as the horns of the archdemon he had slain. Nathaniel knelt to examine pieces of the casket. The decorated glass coffin had shattered, stripped of some of its jewels._

 _A rustling behind him made Nate's head turn quickly. He held his breath, waiting to identify the source of the noise. Half expecting to find Hawke or Alistair fumbling into the hallway, his hand flexed when he saw a ghoul wander from between bookshelves._

 _Frayed and ripped Grey Warden attire draped from its gaunt body, metal clanking as it stepped. The creature shuffled its feet and groaned. Instinct incited muscle memory. Nathaniel reached for his quiver, pulling and nocking an arrow without a thought. But he waited, if the ghoul had any consciousness left it could give information, as the others had reported with their encounter with a ghoul on the way to Vigil's Keep._

 _The hope for any hints of the ghoul's intelligence disappeared when it turned to face Nathaniel and sprinted._

 _"_ _I'm sorry," Nathaniel whispered, bending his bow and loosing the arrow through the once-Warden's skull._

 _It screeched and hit the floor from the force of the arrow. Nathaniel released another into its head without waiting to confirm its demise. The undead thing didn't move._

 _Nathaniel's tuned senses caught the sound of light footsteps running to the room. They preceded the entry of Hale, who gawked at the ghoul's body in the hallway before looking up at him. "Shite is this?" She questioned in shock, repulsion lining her face._

 _Nathaniel lowered his bow. "It was a Warden before it became a ghoul." He turned from her to continue scanning the displays within the library._

 _"_ _Fuck all, Nate," Hale snorted and put her hands to her forehead, "there might be more of these fucking things. We should tell the rest."_

 _The sound of his name escaped her lips and she didn't notice. Her accent's poignant imperfection shaped the nickname into a sharp and familiar sound. It made his skin crawl. He wanted to remind her of his title, to reinforce the consequential propriety of her decision to end their fling. For the briefest moment, she forgot they were apart, and he didn't wish to bring her attention to the fact._

 _He knelt to pick up the placard describing the tomb's contents. Without looking up at her, he muttered, "The others have seen ghouls before. They will be fine if there are any more."_

 _Nathaniel changed the subject. "The stronghold has been raided, but some of the contents of the sarcophagus were removed before it was shattered." He pointed to the evidence, remnants of the tomb. "Garahel's cast was removed before the casket was broken. Someone took the horns and armor before the casket broke. Raiders would not be so careful with abandoned property."_

 _"_ _Who took it if wasn't them raiders?" She shifted uncomfortably, studying the wreckage. As her disgust at the ghoul reduced, he noticed her distance from him grow._

 _"_ _The First Warden, I would assume. I hope he took it to preserve Warden history and not to sell it to the highest bidder."_

 _Frowning, she glanced up to him. "The First Warden bloke's on his Calling."_

 _"_ _What?" He blurted, tone harsh with biting skepticism, doubting Hale understood the weight of the information she casually delivered. Hearing himself, he recognized his critical tone as his father's and reframed the question in softer words. "How do you know that?"_

 _The quizzical brow of the young woman rose at his reaction. She side-eyed him as she stepped toward a row of books. "Said it in his journal."_

 _"_ _Are you sure that's what it said?" Looking to the ground, Nathaniel didn't notice the unconscious clenching of his teeth as he thought. Doubtful of the reliability of whatever Hale thought she read, he hoped the journal could reveal more._ The First Warden must have made a plan. _"Show me."_

 _He gave the order to Hale, glancing past her to the doorway and directing her to lead him to the First Warden's office. As he followed her, he asked about her other findings, any drafted letters in progress, instructions for whoever found the state of Weisshaupt. Hale did little more than shrug._

 _"_ _There's a lot of shite in there. I could only read some of it." Her cheeks tinged and she averted her eyes._

She's kept up with her studies. _He assumed she continued practicing her reading._ Now that she's done fucking Garrett Hawke.

 _Clearing his throat, he gestured his hand for her to keep moving forward._ _"_ _It's fine. Just show me."_

 _The room was mostly bare, stripped of its valuables. Outlines of picture frames showed places where artwork had decorated the walls. Only papers and books remained, strewn across the desk and floor with a fresh layer of dust covering the upheaval. After stepping through the dusty rubble, Nathaniel crouched to look through the papers near the desk._

 _Nimble steps carried Hale through the debris on the other side. The desk chair had been upturned, a leg was broken, and fragments of wood scattered the floor. She reached for a hardbound book on the desk and returned to the last marked page. She handed it to him._

 _The entry was dated later than the letter Hawke had brought him. The letter that started this quest. Nathaniel's heavy eyes followed the lines._

 _"_ _What's it say?" Hale's muffled words broke the silence._

 _"_ _He killed the sick." Nathaniel uttered, disgust transforming into shocked disappointment. He stared at the words as he explained the contents of the journal entry._

 _The First Warden's letter explained the inability to continue sedating sick Wardens while too many of them turned to ghouls. Trust and morale were lacking, and the First Warden himself grew paranoid. The letter comprised of neurotic ramblings about the destruction of the Order as Wardens chose not to fulfill their Calling._

 _Nathaniel suspected it referred to Caoilainn and Alistair's cure, but the explanation was unclear. As the letter progressed it became unintelligible nonsense, incomplete sentences mentioned Garahel's belongings and Ansberg, the Grey Warden base in the Free Marches. The final lines of the letter announced his assumed duties as First Warden to end the conflict by ending the lives of those he blamed for the demise of the Order._

 _Nathaniel refrained from telling Hale about the parts that mentioned Fiona, consistent with the first letter Hawke had found. The First Warden held Fiona responsible for the weakness of the bond and reported a failed attempt to find her._

 _"_ _He led the sick to the Deep Roads and killed them before embarking on his Calling. He'd already felt the Calling, then he had the draining nightmares too," Nathaniel grimaced, closing the journal and setting it back on the desk. "I doubt he made it far."_

 _Hale crossed her arms. "Good riddance to the barmy whoreson."_

 _"_ _The disruption drove him mad," he reflected, gazing at the pile of similar books strewn across the floor. He glanced through the next one, dated a month ago filled from cover to cover with dogmatic preaching about the bond the Grey._

 _Hale pondered aloud. "Didn't Hawke say this place was empty. I know his head's up his arse, but wouldn't he see that pile of dead bodies?"  
_

 _"_ _That was almost two months ago. I'd estimate these Wardens have been dead for two weeks." Nathaniel pressed his lips together, thinking, unfolding the events that had occurred as they made sense with the timeline. "Hawke arrived here with the Orlesian faction from Skyhold. I would assume those are some of them outside." He looked out the door they had entered, desolate save for floating pages of books like tumbleweeds._

 _Nathaniel added, "Based on the First Warden's journals, the rest are on their way to the Free Marches."_

 _With a contemplative hum, Hale put her hands on her hips. "Guess we better be on our way there then?"_

 _She stayed near him as they went to find the others. Even in the arid land, void of timber and plant life, the young woman's scent of pine and wildflowers persisted. It tested him, memories and emotion associated with the sensory. He chose to put his cowl back over his head and pulled his kerchief over his nose and mouth to block them out._

* * *

The discoveries at Weisshaupt upturned their expedition. The group decided not to camp in the Warden stronghold that night, instead choosing to move as far from the fortress as possible before exhaustion caught up with them. They returned to Val Dorma, and after a night of good rest continued southeast along the Imperial Highway.

Nearly a week passed before they found another town. The group's unanimous decision to avoid repeating their mishaps in the Silent Plains brought them to a small settlement on the outskirts of the torrid desert. Levels of wide, stone steps descended into the center of the town from the platform where the travelers stood, and balustrades enclosed each stairway. Gradient windows reached the height of buildings, arched and pointed, and curved etching surrounded their frames. Arbors of similar shapes marked the entrances to different walkways.

The town had been built upon elven ruins, and unlike the rest of Tevinter, those who expanded on this settlement preserved the architecture. Newer buildings complemented what time had left, relics of the civilization that Tevinter had all but destroyed.

Nathaniel observed the civilians from their position at the city's gate and realized they were all elves. Unlike Vyrantium and Val Dorma with its tall buildings forcing individuals to divide into crowded streets, this city was open. Low-rising buildings and a centralized shopping district made it easy to observe what was ahead. The city's design left nowhere to hide.

His pace slowed and the others did the same. He debated if they should continue until they found another town. Considering the tension between humans and elves in Tevinter, he doubted the town's welcome for their odd assortment.

Before he could ask the others for their thoughts, a biting tone spoke with a Tevene accent. "Magisters are not welcome here."

Nathaniel turned to face the speaker in unison with the rest of the group. An elven woman stood with a spear facing toward them. Behind her stood three more, all in matching blue and red armor, with their swords and other weapons drawn. Nathaniel assumed they were guards.

Alistair lifted his hands to show assent. "No magisters here, promise!"

The woman leading the group sneered at him. Her lip curled. "Not you, sleeper." She pointed her staff in Philippa and Hawke's direction. "Are these your slaves?" She gestured her hands to Fiona and Hale.

Philippa smiled and inhaled to speak but Hale stepped forward with her hands on her hips. "We ain't anybody's slaves. Not even from the fucking Imperium so put your bloody spear down."

 _They're liberati._ Nathaniel understood the dynamic, the stronghold built within the elven ruins as a refuge for freed slaves of the Tevinter Imperium. Rather than live as a subclass within the city, they made the most of these ruins near the inhospitable Silent Plains.

The guardswoman's eyes narrowed at Hale and her sneer sharpened. "You're Dalish."

"I'm Hale," she lifted her chin and pointed to Fiona, "and that's Fiona."

Fiona nodded, her tone echoing Hale's. "The humans are helping us." She kept her hands at her sides with effort, as Nathaniel noticed. "We're looking for a place to rest and supplies to continue our journey into the Marches."

"And we can keep riding if you ain't gonna help us!" Hale added, curling her lip at the guardswoman this time.

The guard's assistants lowered their weapons, and after staring at Hale hard for a moment, the leader did the same. She nodded and waved her hand for the group to follow her.

Stepping through the market, Nathaniel noticed more details of the elven city. In much of his experiences traveling through elven village, he had rarely found ruins so intact and alive. Dalish colonies sometimes camped in worn down remnants of elven cities, but these people were not camping. They flourished, despite their proximity to the harsh land of the Silent Plains. The stone foundations and low-rise buildings made haven from the outer threads of dust storms.

Rather than bringing them to an inn or a house, the guardswoman brought the group to what appeared to be their townhall, a more elegant building with a larger entryway than the rest. Attendants stood at counters helping citizens. Rows of pillars lined the wall behind them. The guardswoman brought them directly to a clerk and spoke low enough that none of them could hear over the echoing commotion within the building. The clerk nodded and tilted her head down the hallway, as the guardswoman waved for them to follow.

She escorted them to another, large room on a separate wing of the townhall. The large room stretched the length of the wing, filled with rows of cots, each one holding clean, folded bedding. Beds that did not hold such amenities were occupied with resting elves.

"You can sleep here for the night." The woman nodded to a row of beds. "There are community washrooms on the side of the hall. You will find what you need to wash there."

The guardswoman's astute frown judged the individual members of the group. "In exchange for your bed," she pointed to the sleeping elves, "you will escort these refugees to Hamsel in the Free Marches. Your armor suggests you are more than capable. We have a large group arriving tomorrow morning and cannot escort them ourselves."

Hale's ears perked up, and her eyes widened as they flashed to his, questioning, seeking permission. She blinked in waiting. He did not respond, reciprocating her gaze with silent neutrality.

"I've played this game," Hawke laughed, wagging his finger toward the guardswoman. "That sounds like a recipe for disaster."

"We will restock your rations, including your lyrium." The woman shifted her weight on her feet and clasped her hands behind her back.

Alistair circled his hand to the group in uncertainty. "Maybe we should-"

"Done." Hale declared to the guard before any others could oppose and dropped her belongings to her chosen cot.

When Philippa and Fiona's eyes searched Nathaniel's for endorsement or disdain he shrugged. Even Alistair's eyes widened at him, demanding Nathaniel to take action with the young Warden. Nathaniel only extended his hand toward Hale. He mouthed the words, ' _go ahead,'_ inviting Alistair to confront her.

The King gave a defeated sigh and chose his cot for the night.

The Solas mission was on their way to the Free Marches city of Tantervale. Without a good reason not to help the escaped slaves, he found no benefits in arguing with Hale. If no one else was willing to oppose, he would not stoke an unnecessary fire.


	22. The Hundred Pillars

Coarse cloth rubbed against Philippa's legs; the loosely-threaded fabric covering her cot lacked the quality of her durable Ferelden bedroll. Yet, she appreciated the luxury and extended her arms and legs. In waking her body, she realized how much she missed having a mattress to herself. Despite Philippa's fondness of the young Warden, Hale's fidgeting had lessened the quality of her sleep since they started sharing a bed and there were already other concerning impairments to her slumber.

Satisfied with stretching, rested and ready to start her day, Philippa rose before the other party members. Compared to the paltry excuse for bathing she obtained in their travels to Solas, the washroom in the town hall was more than adequate. And even better, it was empty. She brought her supplies to prepare her potion.

Carved stone marked with intricate details formed sinks and tubs, basins of clean water sat between them connected to some heating source. Philippa sensed magic. Before her own bath, she removed the vials of stashed ingredients and placed them on a bare counter. Dawn Lotus, lyrium, and a diluting agent combined methodically in an empty bottle that illuminated gold then green as she whispered the enchantment. The spell was done, and a fresh supply of the liquid was prepared.

She was surprised at how well it had worked. The concoction she had improvised had positive results, but as the trip progressed, slowing the exhaustion of the illness required additional quantities to have the same effect. She took extra hidden sips from her bottle and even reverted to adding drops to her waterskin to have a steady source of the energizing, healing properties. As privacy became scarce and stores ran low, it was a challenge to avert the gaze of prying eyes.

The offer from Solas officials to restore their supplies came as a relief. Attuned to her surroundings, she grabbed more Dawn Lotus, ensuring that no one noticed her affinity towards the herb.

* * *

Finding the Orlesian Wardens dead at Weisshaupt unnerved Hawke, but not as much as it seemed to bother the others. The discovery was not a surprise, after the evidence they had found so far on this expedition. He considered the news of the First Wardens disposal of an earlier batch of sick Wardens more unsettling.

Deceit and division ran deep within the Order of the Grey. Hawke had learned of the Order's internal struggles, long-standing trends of poor communication and secret keeping when he learned of his father's dealings with the Wardens. The events at Adamant only confirmed the depth of these patterns, and a Senior Warden reported other cases of duplicity on Hawke's first trip to Weisshaupt. The new evidence at the Warden base displayed another level of treachery, perpetuated by insanity, Grey Wardens driven apart as they were driven mad by the illness.

The division seemed similar to the expedition's party. Aware of private conversations between specific members, alliances and discord formed and contradicted each other. Hawke hadn't determined what unified or opposed them, but secrets were passed between the other members. Only Alistair seemed innocent of dishonesty. Whatever secrets, if any, the man had left, he kept them to himself.

Worse than the deception, his methods of amusing himself were unavailable. Since Hale's harsh dismissal, Hawke's willfully obnoxious sense of humor had failed to provide the same satisfaction it once did. He found himself at a loss for words to adequately tease his teammates, mainly when his suspicions of covert collaboration remained unresolved.

When he noticed Nathaniel's leniency with Hale, he saw an opportunity. The Warden Commander made an easy target and Hawke was still bitter.

" _I have much, much better reason to justify knocking your teeth out than Alistair's. And you wouldn't have the advantage of a sandstorm slowing me down."_

Nathaniel's threat still rang in Hawke's ears. In the time he had known the Warden, Hawke had never questioned his honesty. Though the entire interaction left a bad taste in Hawke's mouth, it had proven a soft spot in the Commander, complete with strong seeds of jealousy.

Hawke packed his belongings from the night in his cot. With a better rest than he had since their last stay in an inn, he had overslept. It made him last to meet the other travelers outside. The sun had risen, but the colorful signs of daybreak still clung to the horizon.

The group was divided. Joined by the guard who aided them the night before, Hale planned a route on a map at the stone entryway to the town. The guard pointed out specific locations, a path that had been most effective. The older mage, Fiona, spoke with the refugees, a half-a-dozen of them, guided by a lower ranking guard a few paces away.

Hawke caught Nathaniel glancing their direction as he secured his horse. Nearby, Alistair sat already mounted. His impatient tapping on his saddle was interrupted only by fidgets as he waited for the rest. Philippa kept herself occupied at a table of supplies in the small courtyard within the city. Hawke saw her when he walked to meet them and could see her from where he stood outside the gate.

"Oi!" Hale rolled up her map and called to Fiona. As she walked to her, Hale explained. "Path's as straight as we're gonna get it. Ready when you are."

"We'll have to walk our horses." Fiona answered, eying the men already near or on their mounts. "They do not have horses to spare for the refugees."

"The path's good for it." With a wave of her hand, Hale disregarded the concern. "It'll only be an extra day, maybe two. You all hear that?" She called to the rest of them.

"Hear what?" Hawke gave a tight-lipped smile knowing it belied his pleasant tone. "That you've commandeered the entire operation right from under our noses?"

The young woman licked her teeth as she crossed her arms. "What of it?"

"Not a thing." Hawke smirked, lifting his hands in surrender to avoid an argument.

Hale rolled her eyes and looked away. "Philippa!"

The sorceress stood removed from the group, helping herself to the massive supply of reserves the city had provided. Hawke knew Hale slept in the older woman's tent now and noted the change in the dynamic between them.

Crates of bottled lyrium and partitions of herbs offered with no limitation covered the surface of the table. A nearby surface was filled with rations of food, nuts, dried fruit and meats among other things. Hawke walked in that direction to restock his own supplies, assuming the rest had already done so.

"What?!" Stopping mid-reach for another ingredient, Philippa's head turned to Hale, face red. "What is it, child?"

In a brief pause, Hale's eyes narrowed. She yelled back, "Get that shite on yer sodding horse so we can leave!"

Maintaining her glare with Hale, she closed her bag with a vindictive flair and walked to secure her items on her horse.

Hawke grinned, grabbing a piece of dried fruit from the table. "Give me just a minute, _Commander_." He kept eye contact with Hale as he took a bite. "I still need my supplies."

Her eyes darted to Nathaniel but didn't linger. She gritted her teeth in restraint and took a few long strides toward him. She kept her voice low. "Look, if you wanna tell them yerself you've changed yer mind, do it. No one's making you help."

"Oh, please." Hawke murmured with a quick glance in her direction. He continued through the provisions, taking what he needed for his pouch. "Helping the poor and oppressed is kind of my thing. Champion of Kirkwall, remember?"

"Then what the fuck is yer problem?" Hale hissed, picking up more food rations and stuffing them in his pack. "This would go faster if you hurried the fuck up."

"I always try not to go too fast, but you knew that." He grinned and waggled his brow, ignoring Hale's scoff. "Do you think if you sleep with the _entire_ group you'll have everyone under your thumb?"

"What?" Hale coughed out a bewildered question, frozen.

Hawke lifted a shoulder and shook his head. "You're more than halfway there."

"I'm not _fucking_ Philippa." She whispered loudly, her face reddening. "Fuckin' dumb shite, Hawke. You're a bloody fuckin' idiot."

"Is everything all right?" Nathaniel called to them, taking a few steps closer. Despite the concern in his tone, his brow carried an annoyed furrow.

"It's fine!" Hale yelled back, holding up her hand to stop him. Her other hand clenched in a fist at her side.

"The lady says it's fine." Hawke shrugged in response to Nathaniel.

The Warden Commander stood still for a moment, monitoring the interaction, before sighing and walking away. Hawke heard the drawn voice of Alistair questioning what took them so long.

Shaking his head, Nathaniel muttered something indiscernible in reply.

Scowling from Hawke to the rest of the group in the clearing, she gestured her hand to the rest of them. "If you're that fuckin' jealous I've ploughed more people here than you, do something about it."

Hawke put a final item in his bag and turned to face the group. Nathaniel stood in front, arms crossed over his chest, watching Hawke and Hale with a critical eye. Hawke gave a bitter chuckle and mumbled to Hale. "We're all jealous about something, aren't we?"

* * *

 _Three days later.  
_  
A pleasant change of pace gave positive results; the women led the travel party. Delegating responsibilities to the rest, attending to the needs of the refugees, building their camp, and preparing meals all while assuring their safety required little effort. Unwilling to discuss their thoughts on the matter, the men coalesced to the duties they were charged. Each man kept quiet grumbling to himself.

With the help of the officials in Solas, the group prepared to evade the routes of Tevinter Imperium's militia. Hiding places were circled on the map Hale carried. She guided them to cover when Tevinter personnel surveyed the land, searching for elves attempting to escape the confines of the country. Tactful measures of a thorough plan allowed a seamless exit, and on the third day of traveling, they reached the Hundred Pillars.

What had appeared to be a mountain range in the distance discerned to massive columns, too perfect to be natural, towering to the north and south in uneven rows. A channel through the pillars dictated their path, wide enough for their caravan to pass, and as they walked hints of changing nature greeted them. Foliage sprouted within the sand, and with it came more wildlife, a broader variety of meals as they camped for the night.

The bowstring grazed Hale's cheek as she inhaled, and the feather fletching tickled her skin. She gazed past the notch on her bow, down her arrow, and beyond the pillar where she hid. Body still, her eyes followed a grazing deer nibbling on the grasses protruding from the earth. With a half-exhale Hale's chest lowered, and she confirmed her target before loosing the shot. The arrow rushed through the air, the quiet whistle of a forceful blow gratifying as she watched it find its mark.

She waited, steadying her breath as she witnessed confirmation of the creature's gentle demise. Hopping down from her hiding place, she whistled to the refugees who waited far behind where she hunted. When she had sensed the doe, she employed them to help her return the catch to the camp but directed them to stay behind to improve the successes of her hunt. The escapees obliged, whether to increase the chances of a fresh meal or to merely express gratitude to the woman who advocated for them, Hale did not know. But she accepted their assistance nonetheless.

Hale had expected the elves to be quiet and withdrawn. But as more distance grew between them and the major Tevinter cities, the elves vocalized their excitement. Hale engaged in light-hearted conversation, alternating questions with a few of the escapees close to her age. They asked of her origins, her thoughts of the Dalish, and life in Ferelden. She inquired of their lives in Tevinter, and the anger they shared toward slaveholders. In more than one instance, they consulted Hale for guidance before the rest.

Hale did her best not to allow the respect go to her head. But it did. She found herself motivated by the responsibility, a newfound experience accentuated in this task of rebellion.

After they carried the deer back to the camp, Hale and another woman took the mission of gutting the creature. They worked together, laying the animal prone, both kneeling down on either side. Hale's fingers clasped the small dagger on her belt, and she drew it in a fluid motion to dissect the deer's hide. But the whispers of the woman across from her made her pause. Hale glanced up.

She had only spoken with the woman briefly in the days of their trip so far and hadn't even heard her name.

The woman's large amber eyes stared back at Hale's and widened as the woman nodded to the doe. She closed her eyes and Hale watched, noticing the way the woman's loose braid failed to retain her brown hair cascading down the sides of her face. _She can't be that much older than me,_ Hale thought to herself, studying the woman's features. She was attractive for an elf. Not as tall as Hale, and much curvier. Something in her eyes spoke knowledge.

The woman whispered, " _Seranna_ to Mythal for this gift, life is given and received to sustain us on our journey. Thank you to the gods."

"Right," Hale added, shifting in discomfort. "Thanks gods." She waited for the woman to end her prayer before she continued her mission with her blade _. Feels like I'm back with the Dalish._

The woman remained quiet as she worked, and Hale respected the silence. Not wasting time with idle conversation, the two completed their task effortlessly and walked to a nearby stream to clean up. Water trickled feebly between the rocky columns, down the small tendril of a more substantial waterway.

"I'm Cait," the woman said, reaching her hands into the water. She glanced over her arm to Hale beside her. "You're a talented hunter."

"Hale." _Don't be daft. She already knows that._ Hale felt her cheeks burning. "Thanks, my da taught me. He was Dalish. D'you know how to use a bow?"

"Sadly, I don't," she smirked and pulled her hands from the water, drying them on her clothes, "maybe you could show me."

 _Nice play, Cait._ "Maybe, yeah," Hale chuckled, and her confused blushing resumed. Hale mirrored Cait and dried her hands on her pants, avoiding eye contact until the feeling faded. When she looked back at Cait, an intent gaze stared back at her. Standing, Hale kept Cait's eyes and extended her hand. "You pray like the Dalish, you know."

Accepting the offer, Cait took Hale's hand to help her rise. "Some city elves still pray to elven gods." The two walked back to the camp together. "It's hard to do in Tevinter, but some of us still find ways to worship."

"Well, fuck Tevinter," Hale grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. "Nobody's gods would let those daft fuckin' cunts get away with their fuckery. That's why I never believed in 'em."

"Most elves in Tevinter would agree with you." In a calm and balanced tone, Cait replied to Hale's outburst. "Some of us believe the gods have their own troubles keeping them busy and we thank them for the past instead of asking them to change the present."

"Whatever lifts yer skirt, I guess." Shrugging, Hale declined the opportunity to argue. In her experience with the spirituality of the Dalish, quarreling was a lost cause. No elf could justify to the wasted power of elven gods declining to aid their own people as they suffered. It was easier for Hale to believe they did not exist.

It seemed their pace slowed the closer they came to the camp, but the smell of cooking food permeated the air and made Hale's stomach grumble.

The camp structured between columns on flat terrain, free of the dust and sand in Tevinter. With enough space between the pillars' pathway, they set their tents within eyesight of each other, and between the tents, the escaped elves laid out their bedrolls. The Warden mission party agreed on alternating watch while the elves slept.

Cait stopped out of earshot from the camp. "The men in your group don't communicate well."

A loud laugh blurted from Hale, followed by a lighter giggle. "Ain't wrong there. Every damn day there's another pissing contest between 'em. And look, I'm in charge and things go to plan." She put her hands on her hips and puffed her chest with pride, but her head rattled the arrows in the quiver on her back. Her shoulders dropped in embarrassment.

Cait's smile widened. "You are a fine leader." Her smile faded as she glanced to the camp. "But I have a suspicion you might be the center of some of their discord. Do any of those men, uh, lift your skirt?"

The burning in Hale's cheeks returned at full force and the moment of pride she displayed ended sharply. She tried to change the subject. "Might've if I wore a skirt."

Deep brown eyes staring back at Hale saw right through her evasion. Hale gave a reluctant roll of her eyes and sighed. "Fine. Yeah, tried it with a few of 'em and it ended up a shite show. But it's over now. Those wankers ain't my type."

The curve of Cait's hip as she leaned her weight joined the arch of her brow. Both caught Hale's attention.

Cait's hand rested on her hip. "Maybe I could be your type."

* * *

"Look, Nate," Hawke made a jovial call to Nathaniel as they ate their meals. Night had fallen, and the vibrant campfire burned between most of the travel party.

Hale had returned to the camp with an elven woman. The two ate while engaging in an active and distinctly flirtatious conversation.

Hawke continued, "If you think about it, that woman should thank us."

The piercing glare of Hale from across the fire was not missed by any of them, but she didn't leave her new companion's side to scold Hawke. Instead, the two women took the last of their meal and wandered back toward the stream they had come from earlier.

Suddenly feeling less hungry, Nathaniel paused. The desire to stop eating vanished as his Warden hunger persisted. "Your jealousy is palpable, Hawke," he muttered before taking another bite of food.

Fiona and Philippa had already gone to their tents for the night, responsible for the second half of the watch this evening. Due to her active role in their quest since Solas, the only one of the Warden mission without an overnight commitment was Hale. _The Warden is apparently taking advantage of the free time._ Nate noticed the giggles of both women fading as they walked further from the camp.

The remaining refugees stayed together, removed from the campfire. Nathaniel contributed their earlier sociability to Fiona and Hale's presence, and specifically Hale's demeanor. _She has always excelled at bringing morale to a mission._

Sitting in a quiet corner of their encampment, but not outside of earshot, the reticent King Alistair spoke after what seemed like days of silence. "Honestly, Champion, do you genuinely believe _everyone_ is lining up to bed you? Are you collecting notches in your bedpost?"

The shadows of the campfire emphasized the collection of scars Alistair had gathered from their debacle. Nathaniel hadn't seen a mirror in nearly a week, but he imagined he looked the same.

"Of course not." Hawke laughed, setting down his bowl so he could use his hands as he spoke. He gestured from his head to the rest of his body with a smug grin. "But if they did, I wouldn't blame them. Look at me. You can't tell me you haven't thought the same. The two of you are almost as good looking."

Nathaniel sneered in Hawke's direction. "Have you considered the concept of quality over quantity?"

"Wise words from one such as yourself, Commander." Alistair's quick response surprised Nathaniel, but he cleared his throat and kept eating, hoping the conversation would divert back to Hawke.

 _Fuck you, Alistair._

"That's a good point." Hawke snickered before drinking from his mug, on the exhale he conjectured. "Though, arguably, there _is_ a unique quality to another man's wife and a woman half your age."

"Listen," Nathaniel stood up, taking his food with him, "I really don't need this conversation." He took a step toward his tent but stopped and faced Hawke. "I have told you to stop instigating, Hawke."

"Oh right," Hawke gave a sardonic nod, "that was when you told me that it was sandstorm that kept you from knocking Alistair's teeth out."

"You said what now?" Alistair questioned, setting his food down and lacing his hands together under his chin. "When was this and where was I?"

"That wasn't what I said, Alistair." Nathaniel's hand ushered away Alistair's concern.

"Please enlighten me, Warden Commander. I must have misheard. What _did_ you say?" Hawke grinned, visibly entertained by the conflict he had incited.

 _Don't do it._ The anger within Nathaniel burned his chest. Fire raged up to his face, and he clenched his fist so hard it hurt. He exhaled and released his hand.

"I won't be baited, Hawke." Nathaniel entered his tent and grabbed his bow and quiver. Strapping them to his back, he reemerged. "I'll be back when it's my turn to watch."

He went for a hunt.

Time and time again, he had seen Hale leave their camp or the Keep to clear her mind. And often, he would join her. Hiding amidst silence and nature, they held their bows steady, arrows nocked, ready to capture unsuspecting prey. He remembered the subtle floral fragrance of her hair as she knelt beside him, an added comfort in the pursuit of game before his responsibilities as Commander kept him away.

And now the act of killing something, anything, seemed markedly appealing. An almost adequate escape from the pending failure of this mission. The mage, Garrett Hawke, continued to needle under Nathaniel's skin, just as Hale undermined him- as Warden Commander, as a former flame. Philippa betrayed him, hoarding relevant secrets on behalf of Fiona, a former Warden, and without saying anything, the great King Alistair managed to distinguish all of Nathaniel's worst qualities. It was all too loud, a blaring prominence in the forefront of his mind, and he needed relief.

Deliberate to avoid the path of the two young women, not wishing to stumble upon Hale's rebounding endeavors, Nathaniel meandered from the camp into the forest of stone pillars. The light and smell of the campfire waned, and he found calmness waiting.


	23. Faith

20 Haring 9:42

Days seemed brighter. Sunshine melted snow and the clear sky sustained.

In the four days since she received a letter from Alistair, her mood had been lifted. His words were kind, updating her from Val Dorma before they finally reached Weisshaupt. Though the message was brief, Alistair seemed hopeful. Caoilainn trusted it meant he was that much closer to home.

In line with her optimism, the symptoms of pregnancy did not weigh on her as they had for the first three months. Inspired and free from her bedrest, Caoilainn found the incentive to make a change. She walked.

Rejoicing in the freedom from her bedroom, with new access and appreciation for the details of the palace, she realized it created a haven within the dirty portside city of Denerim she had previously taken for granted. In particular, roses grew in the courtyard garden, tended and copious even through winter. It gave her more gratitude toward the staff and their efforts to maintain the grounds. She gave some credit to Alistair's sentimental nature. _Roses._ The fragrance of the flowers sparked her own nostalgia each time she visited the area.

Accommodating the changes in her body, paced and compassionate movements around the palace halls occupied much of her day. Even her meetings were held on foot, attendees forced to keep up. She fought back the desire to succumb to exhaustion and kept moving, disproving the doubts of her comrades. Morrigan approved of Caoilainn's activity and gave suggestions for limiting time and protecting her body. With Morrigan's endorsement, Caoilann denounced any other's resistance.

But she soon became bored with wondering the same halls, and lonely despite overly-attentive servants. On the fifth day, the confines of the palace, its garden, and outer wings did not suffice. In need of a new adventure, she left the grounds, and the Denerim market welcomed her.

Rebuilt since she traveled during the Blight, but still complete with the same stench and filth. Wattle and daub buildings lined the street, matching the previous versions of the same structures, their thatched roofs in a constant state of repair. Unchanged since her first visit to Denerim as a child, pushy peddlers harassed citizens who bartered to save every possible bit, while children played in the streets and stray mabari wandered back alleyways. Despite the small pack of guards following her a few steps behind, Caoilainn didn't venture beyond the square.

She observed as the lively market milled, paying no mind at first to the presence of the queen. She decided not to wear her crown and did not cover her head, grateful that the simple dress she wore did not draw attention. As she made her way among the patrons, she noted areas in the city still healing from the wreckage of the conflicts that fell upon Ferelden, places in need of investment, financial assistance, or labor.

As her steps took her further into the activity of the market, she heard the people's whispers.

" _Queen Caoilainn."_ Voices murmured, and a buffer of space grew around her and the rest of the people. _"What is she doing here?"_

None directed their questions to her, but she discerned enough to comprehend the citizens' apprehension. _This is not unexpected._ She reminded herself of the tendency for people to talk. Since the earliest days in her mother's salons, she heard the chatter of people unwilling to voice their concerns to the source. Though it bothered her then, she never questioned it, and instead, accepted it as human nature.

Just as she had done with the Wardens and again with Alistair's army, she recognized the need to establish connections. Eying the stand of a general goods vendor, she nodded her head to the clerk. The merchant nodded back.

"G'day, yer majesty." The woman did not show enthusiasm but did not abandon propriety.

"Good morning." Caoilainn made a weak smile and glanced at the supplies while making a feeble attempt at polite conversation. "How are you today?"

When Caoilainn looked back to the vendor, she caught the skeptical wrinkle of the woman's brow before it disappeared. "All's well here, yer majesty. Jus' another day as the rest. Maker's blessing to the king and queen's firstborn." She lowered her eyes to the modest bump of Caoilainn's belly.

Tempted to bite her thumb, Caoilainn refrained. She sensed the merchant's cynicism. Caoilainn's reputation as the Hero of Ferelden nor as the Queen did not redeem her absence most of the last decade and it did not build their trust. Now she had to earn it.

"Thank you and thank the Maker." Caoilainn smiled, putting a hand over the curve. "I'm pleased to share news King Alistair should return soon."

"Maker bless him too then. Roads are dangerous, and he's a good king. Rather not lose this one." The woman's voice softened, and her shoulders eased.

"Nor would I." Caoilainn felt her heart fill with pride for Alistair. He had gained the favor of his people, but a sting of jealousy shadowed the moment. She met the vendor's eyes and widened her stance, choosing professional vulnerability. "In my return to the palace, I wish to serve my part and hear the needs of Ferelden's people. What is your name?"

"It's Brynna," she replied, a thoughtful smirk pulling at the corner of her lip. Brynna lowered her voice. "B'tween us, yer majesty, you've not been here as much as the king. Some might take a little to warm up to ya."

Caoilainn's smile faded, and she felt her heart sinking.

Brynna continued, "But I trust King Alistair's judgment, so I've gotta trust you too."

 _You might have more faith in Alistair's judgment of me than he does._ Caoilainn kept the thought to herself and returned a polite nod. "I'm honored, Brynna and I appreciate your advice. I will certainly keep it in mind. Can I help you with anything?"

Brynna pulled a daisy from a bouquet of wildflowers on her counter and gave a small bow of acknowledgment as she handed it to Caoilainn. "See ya around Queen Caoilainn. You should check with some of the other merchants. They could use yer help more than me."

Caoilainn walked beyond Brynna's stand and spoke with other merchants, aware of their trepidation with her. But she made conversation, received congratulations on her pregnancy, and committed to returning more often. Some accepted her help, requesting small favors to find items for family members or ingredients for their shops. The tasks made her nostalgic for her days before she took the throne, and though she was unable to provide much of the aid herself, she vowed to get the people what they needed. They were receptive, and she considered the trip productive as she returned to the palace, grateful for well-insulated boots.

Content, uplifted, she walked to her office, daydreaming about her plans for lunch. With each step, her hunger grew, and echoing the craving, the seedling in her belly fluttered. Caoilainn suspected she sensed the barely detectable shift due to former enhanced senses.

"Yes, Pup," she murmured. "I'm hungry too. We'll eat soon."

But when she arrived, the immediate rush of hunger disappeared. Another letter waited on her desk. Settling into her seat, she hurried to open it.

 _8 Haring 9:42_

 _Val Dorma_

 _Surprise! It's me again. I imagine your smile as I write this. I hope receiving another letter so soon brings you joy._

 _Unfortunately, it's not to report better news. We're on our way to the Free Marches now, so at least my letters should come more quickly. Though I'm heading your direction, I still don't know when I'll be home._

 _I'll keep the details to a minimum for the sake of privacy, but it seems things are worse than we had anticipated, and the source of the Bond is not sealed within Weisshaupt. What we found instead was, well, disturbing, and I find myself grateful to be free from the Wardens for many reasons._ _You would think this wouldn't be a shocking revelation, but I hadn't anticipated how deep the roots of secrecy are engrained_ _._

 _Yet, I still feel a sense of commitment to them. Even though Nathaniel Howe leads the Ferelden chapter, although the secrets of the Wardens ran deeper than I fathomed, I must help. For both of us._

 _I wish I were home for so many reasons. I didn't think it was possible for me to dislike someone greater than Nathaniel Howe, but Maker. Garrett Hawke is… there's no word for it really. Since our brief meeting in Kirkwall, apparently, his reputation has gone to his head. He's intolerable. I'll be shocked if he makes it much longer without someone losing their temper on him._

 _Relax. It won't be me. I'm determined to return home quickly and with no unnecessary wounds._

 _Thinking of you all the time._

\- _A_

Caoilainn frowned, scanning through the contents of the letter again. The message had been sent a week and a half ago, and only four days after the last letter she received. He had long since visited Weisshaupt and continued toward the Marches before she read the letter from Vyrantium.

Lacking the depth of Alistair's emotional struggles like his initial letters, the last two explained more of their mission. She realized her concerns with Alistair had dominated her fears for the Wardens, and this new information filled her with anxiety.

She knew about the Wardens' secrecy, but only as much as the First Warden permitted her inclusion. The Order's bureaucracy caused debate among the leaders. Changes to protocol and policy rarely occurred, and only with rigorous assessment. Most importantly, any changes to decrees upholding the Grey Wardens' division from the rest of society, no matter the nation, took utmost priority. Caoilainn wondered if she succeeded as Warden Commander because of her own inclination to secrets or if the Order only worsened her habit. Or both.

The baby moved again, pulling her mind from her anxious thoughts to the present. She stared at the initialed signature on the table.

"You might not recall him," Caoilainn spoke to her belly, both hands on either side, caressing the roundness. "I doubt you were big enough to hear him before he left. But you'll really like your father, Pup. I am sure of it."

She used the arm of the chair to help her rise. "Now we will find something to eat and hope whatever disturbing things your father found in Weisshaupt don't follow him to the Free Marches."


	24. Tantervale

_Slender fingers combed through Hale's hair, pulling her in, inviting a kiss in the darkness. Both women hummed on contact, resounding appreciation for the softness of the other's welcome mouth. The sound of the stream trickling nearby muted whatever noises they made._

 _Catching a breath, Hale grinned and her pointed teeth nibbled Cait's lower lip. Teasing, playful, she tugged to bring her closer. Cait obliged, hurriedly ushering off the layers of sand resistant garb in the process. Their clothing fell in a pile by their boots on the pebbled bank._

 _Beholding the curvy figure of the naked Cait, her ample hips and a full chest, Hale stepped back into the stream. She laughed, yelping as the cool water touched her toes, but reached her hands toward the other woman, beckoning. Cait followed, hissing through giggles as the creek splashed against her feet. Cait waded to join Hale in the center of the shallow stream. The deepest point came to Cait's knees and Hale's calves._

 _As she neared Hale, Cait reached behind her, bundling her brown hair behind her to tie it with a string._

 _"I like it down," Hale mumbled, craning her head to nuzzle into Cait's neck. She inhaled the honeyed scent of Cait's hair._

 _Letting her hands fall to her sides, along with her hair loose down her back, Cait moaned. The sound made Hale shudder._

 _With a wide stretched hand, Hale cupped Cait's breast, kneading the supple skin as her other hand followed the smooth turn of Cait's hip. Grabbing Cait's rear, Hale's finger dug in, and she made a small growl._

 _It felt real, and Hale wanted more, to connect, to ravish this woman. She ignored her gut as it tried to remind that Cait was too elven, too kind and traditional, not at all Hale's type, and instead indulged in the craving appetite that kept her seeking more. It charged her with energy each time her tongue slid against Cait's, and her core throbbed each time Cait moaned._

 _It was clear Cait wanted her back. With a lapse in Hale's action, lost in a lustful span of kissing, their foreheads touched. Hale bowed her head to compensate for Cait's height, and the heat of their breaths made small clouds in the air._

 _Cait dragged her finger from Hale's lips down the center of her chest. Tight skin revealed traces of Hale's ribcage beneath the muscles between her breasts. She paced her inhale, nerves alight as Cait guided her hand down._

 _She parted the soft skin between Hale's legs, using a middle digit to guide through the slickness and arriving at her swollen clit._

 _It made Hale gasp, weaving her hand through Cait's tresses and gripping tighter. She pulled Cait closer, just as Cait took permission to twitch her finger, sliding along the bundle of nerves. Cait's body melded to Hale's, adapting as Hale's hips rolled, adjusting the angles of Cait's attention. And she took advantage of Hale's stature, lowering her head to take Hale's nipple into her mouth. She sucked as she continued, rubbing lighter and faster._

 _Overcoming her body's spasms, Hale mirrored the other woman. She guided her had down the space between Cait's legs to find the soaking wet heat that waited. Cait adjusted her stance, bending her knee to give Hale more room. The action made Hale hot, frustrated with immodesty. Her face sweat even in the cold stream. Shamelessly, Hale patted Cait's swollen nub with a finger, taunting it and enjoying the muffled whimper from Cait before she guided herself to the entrance. Hale's curved digit entered, assertive, but gentle. She rubbed from the inside until Cait's tongue lolled and her hand stopped its mission on Hale._

 _It only called for Hale to move faster, delicate but aggressive. Cait's mouth gaped and her back curved, losing balance as her body quaked from the climax. Hale pulled her close, keeping Cait upright as they gently lowered into the creek._

 _Hale brought Cait to sit on her lap, finger still inside continuing to coax spasms from Cait until they settled. The cold water nearly steamed on their bodies. Smooth rocks rested under them and around them, rising above the waterline and up to the shore._

 _They took a moment to breathe. Resting in stillness under the stars as the stream cooled them until they started to kiss again._

* * *

It grew colder the further south the group traveled, and frost covered the needles of the sparse pine trees along their path as they neared Hasmal. A human liaison met them before they reached the gates. The man directed them to a smaller street into the city.

Compared to the sprawling meccas in Tevinter and the sandy restoration of elven architecture in Solas, the quaint town of Hasmal seemed surreal. Homes and buildings spread from the small Circle Tower which had been closed off for reconstruction. Some templars surveyed the tower project with the aid of Inquisition forces. The insignia of both organizations marked the workers' armor.

Hale kept her eyes locked on the liaison, stealing occasional glimpses of the town's activity until they reached their destination. Her stomach tightened. Knowing of the presence of Inquisition forces meant Leliana's elaborate network of spies could easily relay their quest to Alanna who would not approve of the rescue mission if it put the Inquisition at risk.

Cait walked near her, their hands brushing on more than one occasion. But the soothing sensation brought pain; both women knew the closer they came to their destination, the sooner they would part ways.

The city seemed much like the others. Buildings occupied by tenants skirted the outer edges of the town, the quality of which marked the income of the residents. Toward the center, shops and merchants hugged the Circle tower, shrouding the building and the protection it once provided. Unlike her previous visits to the Free Marches, before Alanna joined the Inquisition, tension now clung to the air. The forced silence of their mission conveyed imminent risk even though they had escaped the threats of the Tevinter Imperium. Fortunately, their practiced guide halted the group, directing them to lower their heads and hide in alleys at the appropriate moments.

Aside from delays in time, the delivery of the refugees was seamless. A side door in an obscured home near the back of the village opened. A large man walked out.

Imposing only by his size, a generous beard covered his face, and his belly hung over his belt. He wore a kind smile, and Hale found the wrinkles around his eyes comforting. The agent who had escorted them walked to stand beside him.

"Thank you for your kind assistance." The large man bowed his head to the group. "We have housing for the refugees inside. Please, come in." He gestured his arm to the door.

Hale put her hand on the pommel of the dagger at her waist. "Hold it."

Though he gave no impressions of a threat, Hale squinted. It would be foolish to trust the suspicious conditions of the operation, and prolonging the transfer helped her delay losing Cait.

"I am sure you wish to get off your feet, and we should get inside before we attract attention. We can speak further. I will answer any questions you have, milady." Robert attempted to allay Hale's worries with a congenial nod.

"Not yer lady." She crossed her arms, noticing the similarities in speech between Robert and Nathaniel. "I wanna see what's in there before we hand 'em over to you."

Robert sighed and waved his hand toward the entrance, this time in defeat. "Have at it."

As Hale walked past him into the house, Robert spoke to the group. "Rarely do we have assistant escorts who are so. . . concerned about their cargo."

Ignoring him, Hale stepped from the daylight into the house. Behind her, she heard Fiona's soft tone mumbling to the man.

It took a moment for Hale's eyes to adjust; sensing the motion of others in the room, she blinked a few times to focus. When she could see, she witnessed elves stationed in different areas of the large room. An elven man cleaned the countertops while another woman cut vegetables; another stood by a pot, stirring ingredients for what Hale determined was their dinner. As she observed, another walked in with a sack of linens and transferred the items to a table where another folded. None spoke to her, keeping their eyes on their work.

 _The bastards are slavers._ Hale deducted her observations, feeling the heat in her face. A growl erupted from her belly and out her mouth, startling the elves around her. "Those mother fuckers!" she yelled, balling her fists to resist from tearing the room apart. The elves went back to their responsibilities without giving her a second glance.

Scuffling from outside made its way into the room. It was Nathaniel, leaving the rest standing by the doorway as he surveyed. Eyes critical and bow drawn, he searched for a threat until his gaze landed on Hale standing safely near the table.

"What is it?" He looked around the room, processing what Hale had already witnessed. "Shit."

"I ain't leaving 'em here!" She pointed toward the door before gesturing to the inside of the room. "Them either! Nate, it's fucking wrong."

The sting of angry tears misting over Hale's eyes made her blink.

"I know." Calm and balanced, his even tone validated her anger and settled her nerves. That infuriated her too. Even with her vision blurred and her eyes squeezed shut, she felt him stand closer. Like a magnet pulling him to her, his hand reached toward her shoulder until he stopped.

With a sigh, he lowered his arm and chewed the inside of his lip in thought. "Have you spoken to anyone in here yet?"

She shook her head and slouched in disappointment _Hadn't thought of that._ Her lips pursed in an angry pout as she observed Nate.

He spoke up, addressing the woman folding linens at the table nearby. "Ma'am, how long have you worked here? Are you paid?"

The woman lifted her head and wrinkled her brow. She set down a clean tunic. "Excuse me?"

With a huff, Hale put her hands on her hips. "He wants to know if these arseholes are slavers or if they pay you decent to cook and clean for them?"

The woman made eye contact with the other elves, who had stopped their chores to listen in. She shook her head. "Calm down. Neither is true. We're volunteers. Robert and his company saved us from Tevinter."

"So you're gonna kiss his feet and do his bitch work for the rest of yer lives?" Hale scoffed, tossing a loose rag from the pile on the table.

"It's a token of gratitude." The elven woman sneered. "We travel from Tantervale once a week to support him. It's our choice, and it helps him continue to save more elves."

Robert's voice rang as he walked into the kitchen. "Is everything all right in here? Oh, I see you've met Anna." He smiled at the woman but spoke to Nathaniel and Hale. "She is so kind to bring support to our operation."

"It is my pleasure if it helps you continue to aid refugees."

Realizing her mouth gaped open, Hale closed it. Confused, embarrassed, and still angry for reasons even she didn't understand, she walked out as the others entered the refugee house.

Cait stopped her, reaching for Hale's hand with her own. "What's wrong?"

"We're here." Hale flung her hand toward the building dramatically. "It's safe, and that fat bellend seems alright. So that's it."

Cait's lips brushed Hale's cheek. "Thank you."

"Yeah," Hale groaned, rolling her eyes to meet Cait's, "You're welcome, I guess."

"I don't know where I'll be going from here, but I trust you're a skilled enough tracker. You could come and find me if you're in the Marches."

Cheeks flushed, Hale felt an excited and impulsive burning in her chest. She gripped Cait's hand. "We'll just leave. You ditch this shitehole, I'll lose these tossers, and we'll go somewhere...else."

A gentle laugh escaped Cait and Hale looked up, frustrated.

With a tiny shake of her head, Cait softened her voice. "You know you don't mean that. I haven't known you long, but I know you care about the mission you're on." She squeezed Hale's hand back and kissed the back of Hale's palm. "Go on, Hale. This has been fun."

Grumbling wordlessly, Hale looked up to the sky. Afternoon light made long shadows on the town.

Cait continued. "I can see that even through his anger, the Warden Commander cares about you and values your contribution to this quest."

Throwing up her hands, Hale aggressively dismissed the topic of conversation. "No. Fuck. Let's not talk about him, please."

"Another sign you should stay with your group. You know you have a purpose with them."

A loose pebble rolled against the building when Hale kicked it. Her shoulders caved, and she avoided Cait's eye contact. "No, I really don't."

 _"Te'elan eolasa."_ [You cannot know that.] The whisper tickled Hale's ear.

 _Well, shite._ She sighed and gave a studious gaze toward the open door. Hale knew Cait was right.

* * *

21 Haring 9:42

Tantervale retained its festive nature since the last time Nathaniel had visited. The people cherished poise and wandered the market streets with their heads held high. Groups of varying degrees of nobility mingled and shopped, as if on display for only each other. Gregarious laughter echoed through the commotion.

In one direction of the square, the wide, cobbled road split into lanes leading to large estates, and in the other, the main street reached colorful tents surrounding the vacant tourney grounds, visible from the square.

Nathaniel enjoyed it. Even without the decorative banners and excesses of wine flowing through the streets during the Grand Tourney, the town's vigor reminded him of his love for the Free Marches. He held fond memories of this city.

Things were simpler when he lived in Starkhaven; when his most daunting concern was avoiding the disapproval of his mother's cousin, Ser Rodolphe. A rigorous schedule of training and lessons took him closer to knighthood. In his downtime, he wandered the Marches, improving his techniques as an archer, and often lying to Rodolphe about his whereabouts each night.

He did as he pleased with few responsibilities, finding women who enjoyed his company in each town he visited, and by the final years of his time there, Rodolphe respected him as a squire. The Free Marches grew to feel like home, and he felt more at ease than he ever had in Ferelden.

The group surrounded Nathaniel on either side as he lost himself in nostalgic thoughts. He kept the memories to himself, soaking up the vibrancy of Tantervale and planning to separate himself from the group to find ale and cakes before he roomed for the night. None knew his history before the events of the Blight. Eager to commit himself to the concept of a nomadic life of knighthood, the irresponsible and impulsive young bachelor was nothing like the man Nathaniel was now.

The aggravating sound of Hawke's snide commentary disrupted Nathaniel's reverie. "You've been quiet since Hasmal, Hale. Missing your little elven friend, I take it?"

Hale ignored him, keeping her eyes fixed ahead. The group spread along the cobbled road, taking a slow pace as they looked for an inn.

Hawke continued with his critique. "Look, kid, it's in and out. There's a reason you don't stay there long. If you can't stick with it, don't stick it in… it. That's what I always say."

She sneered at him, her pace at an arm's distance. "Bugger off. You're just jealous I can't keep 'em off me."

Nathaniel cleared his throat, but a voice from a nearby vendor's cart called his attention. He thought he heard his name. _"Nathaniel!"_

He looked through the crowd walking around and between them to find the source — a woman, calling for him again and again. Amused with the circumstances, considering his memories of Tantervale, he couldn't help but smirk even though he didn't see the speaker.

"Is it really you?" The Tantervale accent came from behind him. He turned around to see her. A pretty elven woman, close to his age, with dirty blonde hair tucked behind her ears. "Nathaniel fucking Howe." The intonation was much like what Nathaniel remembered from Starkhaven, but her speech was soft and spritely.

He paused, unable to put a name to the face. Only faintly recognizing her, and unable to recall from where, he nodded. "It's me."

"Still shooting, I see." She winked at him and glanced to the bow on his back. "Your aim was always impeccable."

Hawke's chuckle faded into the background as the memory clicked. _Nathaniel drunkenly stumbled into an archery match after the events of the Grand Tourney and competed against an attractive elven woman. His shots landed well enough to earn her company for the rest of the day. They repeatedly met from that point forward, practicing their aim and other things. She had a younger sister._

". . .Erina!" He exclaimed and extended his arms to hug her.

"Well, this is interesting," Hawke remarked, tapping his chin with a finger. He stood at the closest curb beside Hale, highly intrigued by the interaction.

The thought of shutting Hawke up with a threat or menacing glare crossed Nathaniel's mind, but he disregarded the impulse, instead giving his attention to Erina. _Shit. Or is it Avina?_ He sensed the confused looks from the rest of the party eying him. They walked closer.

"Almost! I'm Avina." She grinned, squinting her eyes, subtly demanding him to remember what he had long forgotten. "My sister is practicing with her bow in the training yard. She'll be happy to see you."

"Sister, is it?" Hawke inquired, eying Avina from head to toe before and circling the conversation like a predatory bird. His gaze looked past her to Nathaniel, brow raised, snooping. "For shame, Nathaniel. Her _sister's_ name is Erina."

Avina blushed and pulled at Nathaniel's hand, apologizing for his mistake. "Think nothing of it, milord. It's been years. People still get us mixed up all the time."

She pulled his hand, and he took a step to follow. But Hawke leaned to whisper into Hale's ear within Nathaniel's range. He listened intently.

"The Commander seems to have a type," Hawke said.

 _Leave her alone._ The threat failed to pass Nate's lips. He considered the ways Hale could make Hawke regret his prodding if he continued.

Instead, Hale's shoulders dropped, and she met Nathaniel's gaze for a moment. The smallest speck of frustration glimmered. But it vanished, and she leaned her head away from Hawke in disgust.

Alistair, completely uninterested in the interaction between Nathaniel and the strange woman, groaned in annoyance. " _Anyway,_ maybe you could continue this reunion _after_ we find an inn and secure our things, Commander."

"He's right, Nathaniel dear." Philippa nodded and crossed her arms over her chest.

Hawke reached for Avina's hand. "Would you care to join us for dinner? Perhaps to tell the most wretched and embarrassing stories you can recall about Nathaniel?"

"Leave 'em alone, Hawke." Hale scowled, batting down his outstretched arm. "Let's go."

 _Damn it._ Torn, Nathaniel knew the group and his mission took precedence, but this old friend, a bedmate offering guaranteed relief from recent stressors proved all too alluring. _And absolutely justified._ The recent torture of enduring Hale's forays qualified an excuse.

Avoiding Hale, he apologized to the others. "I'm sorry. I'll have to catch up."

He exhaled, relieved to have made the decision. Avina squeezed his hand and voiced appreciation, ready to guide him through the Tantervale streets to Erina. For a moment, he trusted he could abandon his responsibilities for just a night; the group would be intact when he returned. But the sound of Hawke's snickering resounded through the crowds. Nathaniel let Avina's voice dwindle into a persistent hum, focusing his attention entirely on Hawke.

The insufferable Champion took a step to follow the rest. His voice projected enough for all to hear him and a few onlookers turned their heads. "You Wardens just can't keep it in your pants, can you? Is this really what we're killing ourselves to protect?"

Hale glanced over her shoulder. "Warden appetite is real, mate. What's yer excuse for trying to nob everything that walks?"

Alistair, who had led the mission to continue away from Nathaniel and Avina, stopped in his path and turned around. "We're protecting the Wardens to protect Thedas. Another Blight is inevitable, and the Wardens are the only way to stop them. Please, tell me I'm not the first one to inform you. You do know why you're here, right?"

The answer from Alistair surprised Nathaniel, and he slowed his pace with Avina, intent to hear how the other's spoke of the Grey Wardens and Hawke's argument.

Another laugh escaped Hawke, and he stopped walking as Alistair neared him. "Is that why you were so eager to leave, your majesty? Doomed to an early demise until you managed to escape?"

 _"Shut up, Hawke,"_ Nathaniel cursed under his breath, annoyed with Hawke answering questions with questions. The growing discord would go nowhere. He glanced to Avina and apologized again, pulling his hand from her and heading to the source of the growing conflict. She stood bewildered, brow furrowed as he turned from her.

Worn from weeks of travel, the visibly dirty clothes and circles under their eyes made the group stand out from the posh citizens. Nearly shouting, they drew the disgruntled gazes of passersby. Shocked whispers inquiring about the presence of Grey Wardens and the Champion echoed through the crowd.

Alistair reflected pride, standing with his feet and shoulders wide. "I chose the Wardens, thank you. It was an honor to serve and much better than my alternative."

Hawke took a casual step in a path to Alistair. "Ah yes, right. Because even the heir to the throne wasn't safe from parental neglect."

"Garrett!" Philippa yelled, offended on Alistair's behalf.

Nathaniel noticed she had grown pale, taking ragged breaths while leaning on her staff to keep her balance. Philippa he moved to rest against the wall of a merchant's shop. Preoccupied with the escalating dispute, none seemed to notice the trouble of her state. _I have to step in._

"What?" Hawke shrugged his arms in exaggeration. "Don't you know about the bastard King's sad story?"

"That's not relevant to our mission," Nathaniel spoke up as he neared them, unimpressed with Hawke's behavior and annoyed it forced him to abandon his plans with Avina. _You will pay for this, Hawke._ The likelihood she would be waiting for him when the debacle ended grew slimmer by the second."Knock it off."

Alistair glowered at Hawke before adjusting the bag that hung from his back. "And it's none of your business."

"Is it irrelevant if it's true?." Hawke pointed his finger and wagged it at Alistair. "My brother, Carver told me some interesting things when he returned from Ostagar. He said Cailain wasn't the best leader either. The apples didn't fall far from the tree, I suppose."

"No one sodding cares!" Hale huffed and turned on her heels, taking a large step toward the Champion.

Philippa leaned forward, her hands supported over her knees. "Keep that balderdash to yourself."

Even Fiona chimed in to against Hawke. "Maric loved Ferelden and Alistair's history has nothing to do with his success as king."

The group resonated Fiona's words in silence, and Alistair's brow creased, he nodded in gratitude to Fiona.

"Do you consider kings who run from their thrones successful?" Hawke's smirk only grew wider, and certain he knew the subject Hawke would rile, Nathaniel's chest tightened. "Say more about forgetting the past, Fiona. What's your experience on the matter?"

The members of the group tightened their circle toward Hawke. Fiona's lips thinned as she frowned.

"For the love of Andraste," Philippa spat, breathless and exasperated. "So she's been cured. What of it? We'll have no more of this nonsense."

In unison, Hale and Alistair spoke a puzzled, "What?" Alistair studied Fiona with concern, waiting for someone to explain Philippa's statement.

Nathaniel cleared his throat. "It is not important. Let's find an inn."

"Aw," Hawke feigned a pout, "The Commander can't leave us alone for one minute."

An embittered laugh escaped Nathaniel. _He stirred this conflict deliberately_.

"I need a moment," Philippa muttered, capping a bottle and putting it in her bag.

Eyes landing on Hale, as they always did, Nathaniel noticed her worried look. She bit her lip.

"Are you alright?" Alistair asked, putting a hand to Philippa's shoulder.

Philippa gave him a kind and tired smile. "I will be fine, my dear."

Rolling his eyes, Hawke crossed his arms. "This is why I don't usually invite the elderly on my quests."

Philippa glowered at him but lacked the breath to make a comeback.

Tilting his head, Alistair kept an intense stare on Fiona who avoided his eye contact. "Honestly, I've found more experienced mages to be quite an asset."

"She's sick," Hale mumbled, gritting her teeth. Philippa's eyes widened, and she shook her head.

Nathaniel's brow arched, trying to comprehend the communication between the women. But the conversation continued.

So engrossed in the discussion, Hawke responded to Alistair's comment, clearly not having heard Hale., "Experience does not sustain its value when it slows cross-country travels."

"She's sick," Hale spoke louder, stepping closer to the rest.

Philippa mouthed the word " _don't"_ to Hale.

To dispel Hale's concerns, Nathaniel raised his voice, drawing the attention of the group. "Illness is an expectation on a mission this long. I'm surprised we've made it this far without it happening already."

Hawke made a dismissive lean. "Is that common under your command, Nate?"

None saw it coming. Hale's growl rose to a yell as she lunged to her side, weight leaning on one leg as she followed through with a fist to Hawke's face. The thud of impact resonated. Caught off guard, Hawke followed the blow as his head went backward. He stumbled, arms reaching for leverage in vain, seeking something to hold onto before he fell to the ground.

A nearby group of Tantervale citizens burst into laughter.

 _Well done, Huntress._ The sight pleased him, but Nathaniel refrained from displaying approval or dismay at Hale's behavior, and no one else commented. Alistair and Fiona covered their mouths, likely to hide surprise or amusement. Philippa, catching her breath with her weight on her staff, only gave a pleading look to Hale.

Hale shook out her hand and pointed to Philippa with the other. "Phil's got the fucking Warden illness!"

Hale's words hit Nathaniel like a ton of bricks. His eyes scanned Philippa, who looked toward the sky, avoiding discussion and confirming Hale's declaration. _Damn it, Phil._ The urge to scold her fell short when he witnessed her struggling to breathe, unable to stand. The sorceress wasn't proud, and the news would require a change of plans.

Flexing her fingers, Hale stepped over Hawke and away from the group. He groaned, his hand covering his swollen and bleeding nose. His other hand gave the commander a thumbs up. "Excellent commanding, milord," the ironic mutter came with a garbled snort. He suffered from his humor and hissed in pain before dropping his head back again to slow the bleeding.

Hale walked in one direction, and when he turned around, Nathaniel spotted Avina leaving him in the other.

He exhaled, frowning at Hawke as the man struggled to stand. "Come on, let's find rooms."

Fiona helped Philippa as they joined Nathaniel, Alistair strode on his other side, and Hawke scrambled to catch up. They all followed Hale into the doorway of a well-lit inn.


	25. Questions

With his mind preoccupied, Alistair almost missed the justice of Hale's punch landing on Hawke's face. The resounding smack brought him back to the present, and he couldn't help but laugh. But the humor quickly faded as they followed Hale. Nathaniel remained cold to all of them, and Fiona helped Philippa walk. Absent-minded to the audible whispers of passersby, and still dumbfounded by the recent revelations to the group, Alistair did not help. Hawke lifted himself from the ground.

Granted a chance to calm down and wash up, they planned to reconvene over dinner in an hour. The Warden Commander forfeited his evening out with the Tantervalian elf in favor of the group's meeting. They would address the news of Philippa and how to proceed.

But other information took the forefront of Alistair's mind. After reaching his room at the inn, he changed his clothes and laid in bed, staring at the fine cracks and grooves of the stone ceiling.

" _So she's been cured."_ Philippa's words repeated.

" _What?"_ Alistair had vocalized his question, and none answered, moving on with the conversation as Philippa's symptoms declined. Worse, it seemed most of them knew what Hawke implied and Philippa admitted, and it came as no proclamation. _Typical._ The others had decided who was entitled to the information, and Alistair, no longer a Grey Warden and inactive with the Order, was deemed not privy to such details. His temples twitched as he gritted his teeth, quietly mulling over the details.

 _But that means Fiona was a Warden._ He deducted what cure they referred. The clarity only provoked a longer list of questions, and the chance to ask them had disappeared as Philippa's state took precedence for the party.

Alistair's thoughts fixated on Fiona. _When? With whom? What quests? What happened?_ The question most prominent echoed every other inquiry he could muster. _Why lie?_

 _There's more to this._ Alistair was sure of it. He surmised either the others knew more about the circumstances of Fiona's history and kept the information private, or they were less bothered by her lack of communication. Which frustrated him more, he couldn't decide.

 _Why should I be more concerned about this than everyone else?_

An undeserved sense of betrayal settled in, and he sighed. The two had shared many thoughtful conversations since his cure at Skyhold, more than either had with the other party members. Each time, Fiona showed concern and compassion for his well-being and offered insightful advice without criticism. He had opened up to her, displayed honesty, and admitted his struggles. _She should have told me._ The answer was clear.

He applied her name to the title, to see if it helped them sound less illogical — _Warden Fiona._

The memory of Hawke's voice carrying through the Vigil's Keep hallway surfaced. _"I don't think the name is a coincidence."_

They were talking about Fiona, he realized, disappointed with his blindness. If he had paid more attention, he could have arrived at the apparent conclusion earlier.

Another memory arose, and his stomach dropped.

 _Caoilainn laughed along with him and told of a discovery she made in the Grey Warden Vault in the Denerim Market District._ " _The record I found listed a Fiona. Also a mage, cured about 32 years ago."_

Alistair groaned and put his hands to his face, rubbing his palms on his eyes. "I should have known." The words came out loud, and he sighed at his naiveté.

The realization didn't alleviate the unease in his stomach, and he didn't expect it would vanish until he spoke with Fiona. _I need answers._ But other responsibilities would need to be handled first.

He joined the group for dinner in the inn's tavern downstairs.

* * *

Fiona stood at the doorway of her bedroom clenching her hands and releasing them. Aware of Philippa probably needed her help in the room next door before the meeting for the sorceress was due to begin. Fiona's stomach growled in hunger after going the day without eating. Yet, she couldn't bring herself to open the door.

She would have to face Alistair.

" _So she's been cured..."_ As soon as the words had slipped from Philippa's lips, Fiona regretted her self-interested choices. She had offered kind words to Alistair more times than necessary, too much for him not to be upset by hearing this news from someone else. At some point, the altruism stopped being for him. It served her.

 _He deserves to know more._ As Hawke, Philippa and Nathaniel uncovered her secret, the obligation to tell Alistair solidified. And as true as the detail might be, she couldn't have told him. It was plain and simple. Letting him know about her history as a Warden would invite more questions. Now he knew, and the questions would only come in a matter of time.

"Fiona, dear," Philippa's voice called from the hallway. "Tell me you're not staring at the door like a ninnyhammer."

Heat rushed through Fiona's face, anger rising. She swallowed, summoning every effort to keep her voice down. Her jaw set, frown locked as she swung open the door. "This is your fault, Philippa," she whispered.

Philippa looked better than when they had arrived. Probably loaded up on whatever concoction she had been drinking to hide her symptoms.

"Oh, calm down," Philippa ordered and put her hands to Fiona's shoulders, condescending as if Fiona were a child. "Nothing has happened, and the information does not change a single thing about the present situation. Anyway, most already knew."

"Alistair didn't know." Fiona wrung her hands, looking over Philippa's shoulder to see if any occupied the hallway.

"Even better then." Philippa rubbed Fiona's shoulders in a soothing motion. "You two are on good terms, are you not? He'll be more understanding than anyone."

Doubt rooted itself deep in Fiona's chest. She had witnessed Alistair's response to lies when Caoilainn admitted her pregnancy; when Alistair chose to leave her for this mission. Being lied to by those he cared for was worse than deceit from a stranger.

With a meager nod, Fiona voiced, "I hope so."

"Hush now, Fiona." Philippa patted her with one hand. "Now it's time to determine my fate."

* * *

The tavern was comfortable. Tables of treated oak filled the room, lined with used candles, their wax dripped down their holders and securing them to the wood. A nearby fireplace warmed the room. The barkeep brought drinks and food to the party's table, whatever the kitchen had available that night. And Philippa ate what felt like her last meal, enjoying her food and the decent ale before they decided to remove her from the group.

No evidence they collected suggested the Warden illness was communicable, affecting Wardens at random since Alistair and Caoilainn's cure. Nevertheless, the committee sat away from her, leaving Philippa at the end of a table by herself. That included Hale, who had shared the same bedroll with Philippa for weeks, and now chose to sit next to Nathaniel. The young Warden avoided Philippa's gaze as she ate.

Unwilling to delay the inevitable any longer, Philippa took a drink and set it down. She patted her mouth with a dining cloth. "All right, let's not dally. What are you all to do with me?"

Dumbly they stared as if they had all forgotten the purpose of the meeting, voluntarily choosing to sit in awkward silence at the same time.

"Come on," Philippa raised her drink to them with an expectant look, "I'll not have my time wasted."

Nathaniel cleared his throat and spoke before the rest. "This certainly makes things complicated, but I'd rather not lose a Warden, whether that's because they become a ghoul, or we carry on without them."

Before picking up his glass, Alistair mumbled, "I'd rather not have a ghoul in our party, thank you." He drank water, instead of ale like the others.

"Of course not, your majesty." Philippa gave a polite smile to Alistair "I would never wish to impose that on you."

Still avoiding Philippa's eyes, Hale nodded toward her while talking to the other group members. "She's gotta potion that keeps her going."

 _Such a clever girl._ The endearment Philippa felt for Hale's perceptiveness was magnified. And as the circumstances stood, it served no one for Philippa to continue to omit the truth.

"Dear child," Philippa softened her voice, "I am sure you have noticed I have needed far more of the potion as of late. It may be impossible for me to keep my supplies filled to brew more of the elixir as my illness progresses. I am sure to be a burden."

The small voice of Fiona followed Philippa's statement. She looked at Nathaniel as she spoke. "I will help her gather what she needs. I don't know the potion, but I am sure we can keep her supplied."

"I'll help too." The young hunter added her pledge to Fiona's.

Philippa glanced around the group, seeking any other responses. Aside from Hawke, whose eyes were hidden beneath the shadow of his hand as he rubbed his temples with his index finger and thumb, the rest looked at ease. Philippa smiled in relief. "Splendid. Then it's simple. We should reach Ansburg and find an answer to all of this so I can heal along with the Order."

The Champion of Kirkwall made a wry laugh. His hand lowered, showing the extent of his swollen nose and haggardness, unhidden by his facial hair. Free of his usual sarcasm, he informed, "I don't agree. It would be too risky."

Alistair's head turned in surprise. "Right, and since when do you care about our safety?"

"If I'm honest," Hawke lifted a matter-of-fact brow as he responded, and extended his hand in annoyance. "I am concerned about _my_ safety, thank you. She should stay here or travel back to Vigil's Keep on her own. After getting lost in the Silent Plains and the unplanned journey with the refugees, this trip is taking much longer than we anticipated. Waiting for Philippa to stop and gather herbs will only slow us more."

A concerned hum came from Fiona. "The only pattern to the illness we've determined is the Warden's connection to the Bond. The unity of the Ferelden order preserved them longer. If Philippa is on her own, she is sure to suffer more."

"And Aidan," Hale trailed the end of Fiona's words with her own, "Phil's far from her mate. Could be why she got the illness, yeah?"

 _She's right._ A pang in Philippa's chest as the mention of Aidan's name confirmed another insightful observation from Hale.

"He's my protégé, my dear child." A sentimental and sad smile pulled her lips.

Indignance coated Hawke's tone; he shook his head. "That's all well and good, but it's too late now. She's already sick."

Nathaniel's reply came too quick to be neutral, and annoyance lined the edges of his stoicism. "Why don't _you_ leave, Champion?"

Hawke almost laughed, a surprised smile curving his mouth. "What?"

"We returned to Weisshaupt and found it vacant." Leaning back in his chair, Nathaniel crossed his arms over his chest. "I think your time with us is complete."

"Nice try." Hawke smirked and scooted his chair closer to the table. Hands laced, he rested them in front of him. "You need my help now more than ever. I've visited the Circle in Ansburg, and I've seen the Warden base."

Nathaniel grumbled, "I'm sure we could figure it out on our own."

"Need I remind your lack of manpower?" The bruises swollen beneath Hawke's eyes, and the enlarged bridge of his nose painted a different picture of the mage. Unamused and slightly threatening, he glanced to Philippa. "Can you afford to be down _two_ mages?"

"He's right." Philippa lifted her chin, resisting the urge to defend herself. "The illness has already occurred. My time is limited until there is a cure."

Hale slammed her tankard down after taking a large gulp. "Don't be daft! With all the sodding books she carries," she gestured her hand to Philippa while speaking to the rest, "Phil knows more about magic than anyone."

"Age helps for some things," Hawke muttered into his mug.

Calm but concerned, Fiona kept Philippa's gaze as she spoke, "Despite my experience as a cured Warden, I trust Philippa's knowledge of arcane magic and necromancy more than my own, and Hawke's too for that matter. The subjects may be needed depending on what we face."

With a slow nod, Nathaniel's eyes narrowed, glancing around the table. He lifted his hand. "Those in favor of keeping Philippa with us, accepting her need for supplies for her potion along with the time and potential risks involved, raise your hands."

Philippa held her breath, watching the uneasy stares pass from person to person across the table. Delayed, none volunteered their vote too quickly.

Hale's hand rose first, and she bowed her head to Philippa. The sorceress felt her chest filling with pride, and a sense of relief washed over her. _There is hope._ A moment later, Fiona's hand raised. She gave a modest smile to the other sorceress.

And that was it. Hawke's hand stayed on the table, and his brow remained lifted in criticism. Alistair stared blankly at his plate, his hands in his lap. After a moment of silence, he glanced up to Philippa.

"I'm sorry. I can't willingly agree to make this trip last any longer. I need to return home."

With a compassionate lift of her glass, Philippa replied, "Of course, your majesty. I wouldn't expect otherwise." She drank in mock confidence.

Before she set her tankard down, Nathaniel's voice ruled the outcome. "The vote supports keeping Philippa with us. Will the two of you accept these terms?"

An embittered chuckle sounded from Hawke. He shrugged. "I have nowhere else to be, and let's be honest, you all would miss me too much."

Alistair sat in silence, studying the wall behind Philippa. The beard he had grown on their trip aged him, along with the lines defined on his forehead. He took a loud inhale. "Technically, I don't need to be here, since you already have a cured Warden among you." His eyes darted to Fiona. "But I've come this far, and as frustrating...and _foolish_ as it is, I still feel a sense of responsibility for the outcome."

The lines on his face eased as his shoulders relaxed. Philippa squinted, focusing, curious to see this honest side of the man who had consistently shut himself off from the rest of the group, aside from Fiona.

"Then it's settled," Nathaniel said, not lingering on Alistair's reflection. "We continue on our path and address concerns about Philippa as they arise."

She couldn't help but smile, relieved and warmed by the choice the group made. In agreement on this verdict, they finished the last of their meals and sips of their drinks before dividing for the night.

In the privacy of her room, Philippa combined ingredients to make her elixir.

* * *

Following Philippa, Fiona took quiet steps up the staircase of the inn. The rest of the party dawdled in the bar downstairs. Lost in thoughts about the meeting, the events of the day, and what was to come, she didn't hear steps behind her.

"I must be here, you know. I could be at fault for the weakness of the Bond," the strong timber of Alistair's voice pulled Fiona from her distracted and guilty daze. She had realized the truth in his confession at the table. Alistair added, "At least in part, that is, just a little."

Reaching the top of the stairway, Fiona stopped and waited. Her chest tightened, dreading the questions she was sure he would ask.

Alistair continued, "I've noticed you've been distant since I fought with Nathaniel. I thought I had upset you. To think it was because you were hiding something had never crossed my mind." The faintest traces of pain underlined his words.

She turned around. Considerate and unintimidating, Alistair stood a few steps lower, making their heights equal. He showed respect. The light from a nearby sconce reflected in his downturned eyes.

"I promise, it had nothing to do with you. Philippa had found out, and I didn't want you all to know." Her brow wrinkled in apology. "I know I should have said something to you sooner."

With a sarcastic glance to the ceiling, he nodded a subtle agreement."Be that as it may, it seems I was the last to know." When his eyes returned, his mouth pulled down, frowning. "Try as I might, I can't get past _why?_ Why keep that a secret when we're on a quest _for_ the Wardens?"

 _Because I'm your mother._ The instinct response blared in her mind.

In habit, Fiona's hands reached for each other. "It's not an easy subject to explain, and it was so long ago. I knew it wouldn't help."

 _Please leave it alone, Alistair._ The plea failed to pass her lips. Any urgency to end the conversation would only usher his need to know more.

With a strained laugh, Alistair forced a smile. Something about the whites of his teeth and the red in his hair reminded her of his nobility. _His father._ She watched in a conflicted admiration.

Alistair shrugged. "It doesn't have to help. It wouldn't have hurt anything either, and by now, everyone else already knows. Why not tell _me?"_

 _Because I'm your mother._ The four words repeated themselves, and she almost laughed at their absurdity. She couldn't tell him. As simple as it would make the present situation, it would only hurt him. It would put his position as king at risk, uncovering the truth that he was the bastard child of an elven mage who was very much alive, and not whatever story Eamon had concocted. And the risk of his anger at another secret, betrayal deeper than any he had already experienced, only frightened her.

Fiona was present at the meeting in Denerim when Alistair opted to join their crew on a mission across Thedas to avoid his wife when she lied. _I would certainly lose him forever._

"It's a subject I'd rather not revisit," Fiona muttered, hoping it would be enough to mollify his curiosity and put an end to the interrogation. "I knew you would have questions and I didn't want to disappoint you. I'm not willing to answer them."

"Of course, I have _tons_ of questions!" His arms reached out to his sides in exasperation, and his face reddened. "Honestly, how could I _not_ have loads of them?"

Fiona bit her lip, the apologetic wrinkle in her brow returned, but she remained silent. The frustration flickered in his expression, sharp and agitated. With an embittered sigh, Alistair's arms lowered to his side. "Fine. I'll keep my questions to myself, but I thought we were closer than that."

The words stung. His palpable anger and disappointment pushed her to say more, to accept whatever consequences arose and tell him everything. _But I can't and I can't lie._ The thought of misleading him made her queasy. "I'm sorry, Alistair."

"You don't owe me an apology. I'm sorry I asked." His voice was cold and his eyes glistened. A step below her, she witnessed a glimpse of innocence in the sadness of such a large man. "And now I know where we stand for next time."

The conversation ended. Alistair looked at the wall behind her, disconnected, waiting for her to move from his way. Biting her lip, Fiona lifted her hands to slow him down. "Please, I know you're upset but it's better this way," she murmured. The pit in her chest sank further.

"You—" He glanced at her, disdain lining his features before he chuckled, sneering. "Keep your secrets, Fiona, but don't decide what's best for me."

She couldn't argue with him, considerate of his frustration and not wishing to invite an argument. _He doesn't understand._ Instead, she nodded, holding silence, and moved out of his way.

He stepped up to her level and walked toward his room. Standing still, Fiona watched in remorse, and respectful to his reaction. He reached his door and turned around. "I'm angry with myself. The pieces were right in front of me and I didn't put them together."

"What?" Her brow knitted, confused.

He laughed again and rolled his eyes, fingers wrapping around the handle of his door. "I'm _so_ dense that I didn't see the signs you were the Fiona that Caoilainn found a record on. In the Warden Vault in Denerim, of all places."

 _Because I'm your mother._ Her heart raced, and the tightness in her chest dropped to her stomach. She knew the nervous and pestering flutter would not leave anytime soon— until she spoke with Caoilainn. Unclear how much of her case the Wardens reported in their records, there might be further information in the vault. _I have to find out how much she knows._

Alistair added no other words and entered his room, shutting the door behind him with a curt slam.


	26. Breathe

_20 Haring 9:42_

 _Hasmal_

 _C,_

 _We arrived in Hasmal as planned and delivered the 'cargo' to the activists. All seemed well. The town is damaged from the breach, but it's rebuilding. We're only here for the night._

 _Picturing you reading this in a few days is nothing short of motivating. Did you receive my letter from Solas a few days ago? There may even be another in a day or two since our next stop is Tantervale. That is, of course, assuming you read my ramblings. You might simply throw these letters away as soon as they arrive. Not that I could blame you or that I don't deserve it with some of the things I've said._

 _I've had some time to pull my thoughts together since my outburst at you before the Silent Plains. My anger still comes and goes, but I find little of what is left directed toward you. The past is behind us, and I have learned from it. You must be honest with me, and if something is preventing your honesty, it is your responsibility to tell me. All I can do is trust you._

 _As complicated as my opinions about our conflict may be, I know that I love you. Please, understand that._

 _In my daydreams, you are content and tenacious as always. I'm sure you've given Teagan a run for his coin in the ruling department. The man's priorities differ from mine which differs from yours. I am interested to see what you come up with when I return._

 _In truth, I can only continue this mission when I imagine that you are well. If I think about you in any hardship, sick, struggling, or sad, it's nearly impossible for me to stay committed to this Maker-forsaken quest. The temptation to drop everything is too real, especially when I'm so close to Ferelden. So close to you._

 _I could end the letter here. But I have time to keep writing, and I must admit, my mind keeps wandering in a much different way. It would be absolutely shameful if anyone else were to read this. And I suppose I will address those consequences if need be._

 _The thought of you, the woman who trains harder than most men I know, with child— complete with a belly that somehow complements your strength—well, it is undeniably provocative. Knowing that I caused it? Maker's breath. Is it bad I find that I'm proud? That I find the images of you in this state so attractive? Tell me you don't mind. Well, I hope you would if you could._

 _And the things I would like to do to you, woman. I would explain more of the filthy fantasies I've had as of late, but I don't think words would serve justice. You'll enjoy what I have in mind when I have the chance to show you. But I'll have you know, memories of you, your skin. . . Your mouth, your voice, and your sinfully consistent and unbridled agreement, well, they keep me up at night._

 _Look at me. Like an adolescent boy, babbling on. Forgive me. Believe you are desired, my love. Very much._

 _For now, I need to take care of some personal matters, here in the privacy of my room. I wonder if you ever do the same?_

 _A, your king_

 _P.S. My beard is quite beardly now. You will hate it._

25 Haring 9:42

Two pages of script provided a stronger connection to Alistair than Caoilainn had experienced in months. Her eyes followed the lines, reading the update, his honesty, and confession delivered with his signature cheeky attitude. It deepened her longing for him. Desire she minimized, unsure of his commitment, abated by the time she reached the end. Her face burned with flustered embarrassment.

She looked out the doorway of her office to make sure none witnessed her intense blushing then closed her eyes. Cool air met her face and neck as she sat back, waiving the paper against her upper half. Ashamed of her excitement over Alistair's choice of words, the evidence of his maturity aroused her as much as the suggestive comments.

"Bad news, your majesty?" Teagan's voice rang from the doorway. Caoilainn's eyes shot open, and she sat up, folding the letter.

Stumbling over words, she felt the burning in her cheeks intensify. "Yes, uh…" With a forced swallow, she nodded. "The trip is taking longer than anticipated. They are on their way to Ansburg."

"Your last update said as much." His eyes narrowed on her, darting to the letter. "Or perhaps it's good news?" His wink was so quick, she almost missed it.

With another swallow, this time holding back nausea sparked by Teagan's flirting, she replied. "May I help you with something?"

His grin widened. "I was going to offer to escort you to our dinner meeting, your majesty. Fergus will meet us in the dining hall."

It would be uncouth to arrive at a meeting too stirred to think straight, unable to discuss the status of the Inquisition with Teagan and Fergus over dinner. She didn't wish to prompt any questions from the men. But the letter she held burned in her hand, coaxing her blushing and agitation, urging her to read it again.

"I would appreciate that." She said, maintaining eye contact with Teagan, resisting the compulsion to look at the parchment as she placed it in a drawer in her desk. "I will return to my office after the meeting."

 _And return this cheeky letter._ The effort to refrain from smiling hurt Caoilainn's cheeks. _Damn you, Alistair._

* * *

"Her Majesty has graciously joined us," Teagan announced as they entered the dining hall. Banners covered the stone walls, tributes to Ferelden and the Theirin household. Lit candles filled the lengthy table, their light magnified by sconces. Prestige retained even in an informal dinner, the table was dressed and places set for three.

Teagan extended his hand to a seat at the head of the table.

"Sis," Fergus greeted, rising. The gentle dragging sound of his chair against the stone floor reverberated through the room. He maneuvered to the seat adjacent to his and pulled it out for her before she could reach it.

Endeared and slightly annoyed, Caoilainn gave him a polite smile and took her seat. Fergus pushed it in. "You didn't have to do that," she said.

"I know." He grinned, putting a hand on her shoulder before moving to his seat. "And I appreciate that you let someone help."

"I'm learning." She stuck her tongue out at him through a mock frown.

"Alright children," Teagan interrupted, playfully admonishing their immaturity as he sat across from Fergus. "We have business to attend to this evening. I have news about the Inquisition's developments, and how they may influence Ferelden."

Kitchen staff delivered their plates a moment later and Caoilainn's mouth watered. The distinct grumbling in her stomach did not arise from the subtle shifts of the little one, but the sudden realization that she hadn't eaten in hours.

She glanced to Teagan as she filled her fork. "I'm listening. What are they up to now?"

Both men knew of the bad terms the Inquisitor dismissed the Ferelden Wardens after the battle of Orlais, but neither knew of the mutual animosity between Caoilainn and the Inquisitor. She was grateful Alistair had withheld such details from his advisory meetings.

"They are making heroes of themselves. Communities throughout Orlais and even the Free Marches are receiving aid from the organization." Teagan patted a docket on the table. "It seems they've strengthened their allegiance with Orlais and have upheld many strongholds within the country."

Fergus rolled his hand, preparing to speak up. He swallowed his food and followed it with a gulp of beer, speaking on his exhale. "With one of their own, no less. Practically Nevarran royalty now holding the Sunburst Throne smack dab in the center of Orlais? That smells quite strongly of foul play if you ask me."

"I believe the term you're looking for is nepotism." Caoilainn shook her head, glancing from Fergus to Teagan. "How can anyone suggest the Inquisition doesn't have almost all Chantry abiding countries under their thumb?"

"It gets worse." Teagan raised his eyebrows, glancing at his papers. "The Inquisition has significantly reduced their forces in Ferelden. They have almost completely withdrawn from Redcliffe."

Caoilainn scoffed, exasperated and wide-eyed. "So they are doling out aid to Orlais and the Marches, and they've nearly abandoned _all_ of Ferelden?"

"It would seem that is accurate." Teagan nodded, pressing his lips together in a tight frown.

"Unbelievable." Rolling her eyes, Caoilainn shook her head. Appetite lost, she set down her silverware, and leaned back in her chair, bringing her attention to this new predicament. "We need to take action."

"Not too hasty, sis." Fergus lifted his hands, ushering her rashness to stop. "Remember they are still the heroes in everyone else's eyes. Be careful not to rush into anything irreversible."

The absurdity of the situation was almost amusing, and Caoilainn laughed, sharp and bitter. "How long do I wait, Fergus? Do I sit idly by until Orlais decides to invade Ferelden with the support of the Chantry, backed by the Inquisition?"

"They've given no evidence to indicate that is their plan." His voice remained low, patient with her outrage. "I would suggest you wait until your anger has subsided, so your next step isn't reactionary. It would be good to avoid stress, mind you." Fergus raised a brow and glanced to her midsection.

She sneered at him, disapproving of the subtle condescension and took a breath in preparation of her retort.

But Teagan spoke before she could reply, gesturing a hand to Fergus and mirroring the other man's sentiments. "I agree we cannot be too hasty." He signaled his hand to Caoilainn this time. "And we can't wait too long either. Orlais gains stronger footing with the Inquisition and reversely the longer we delay. With the support from the Marches and Nevarra, they literally have us cornered."

As much as the circumstances infuriated her, Caoilainn could not submit to them. Teagan's point provided the last straw and demanded she take action. In respect to Fergus's suggestion, unwilling to be reactionary, she took a deep breath and scooted her chair closer to the table. Caoilainn picked up her cutlery to resume her meal.

"If we must play by their rules, we will do so." She frowned; her finger extended along the top edge of her knife, cutting meat as she made the announcement. "Teagan, I want a poignant letter drafted to Divine Victoria herself, a call to action to address the apparent inequity and malfeasance from the eyes of Ferelden. How she responds will show us the depth of the Chantry's current impropriety."

The weight of Fergus's eyes bored into Caoilainn, but he hummed an apprehensive agreement. He added no other reply.

"A sound plan, your majesty. It may be a slower process than a direct confrontation, but it will keep yourself and King Alistair free from accusations of aggression. I will begin the letter after dinner." He nodded, patting his mouth with a napkin before reaching for his cup. "To Ferelden."

The tinkling of their glasses joined the echoed pledges to their country. The three sipped before returning to other topics over dinner.

* * *

Their meeting adjourned, and Caoilainn headed to her room, not without snagging Alistair's most recent letter from her office on the lower floor. Walking lightly, she climbed the stairs to the royal wing and opted for the first room in the hall.

Silence resonated as she opened the door to the bedroom she shared with Alistair. Bed made, unoccupied since Alistair left nearly two months ago, the loneliness startled her. She paused, taking in the room she avoided so often, multiple times a day, to the point that she had almost forgotten it existed. But the folded papers in her hand summoned her, hurrying her to sit down and read.

She crawled onto the bed, ignoring the stinging nostalgia in the details of the room that reminded her of Alistair, the roses carved into the wood and the dark red drapes, and instead focused on the connection to him right at her fingertips as she unfolded the letter.

Reading it again, she heard his voice clearer than the first time. With a chance to prepare for the words that awaited, she found herself annoyed. In the course of all his letters, he had waffled between disdain and resentment, and now he realized sexual desire — i _ncredible timing, Alistair._ She snorted to herself, reading his fondness with apprehensive gratitude.

But when she imagined him speaking her stomach fluttered. The thought of him with a full reddish beard, contributing a sense of sagacity and softened her annoyance. The quality of his timber in her mind changed as he shifted from sentiment to sarcasm; and when he flirted, praising her features with his lowered tone, gooseflesh rose on her arms and tingled the back of her neck.

'… _Sinfully consistent and unbridled agreement.'_ She shivered and read again, letting his voice echo through her imagination.

"Yes, my King," Caoilainn muttered to herself, smiling with only the slightest irritation.

She pressed the letter to her chest, feeling the love and longing in his words vibrating through the parchment and onto her skin. Her body responded. Cheeks flushed, warmth emanated from her belly to her core. For the first time since Alistair's departure, she found herself aroused. Nerves alight with sensitivity, even her clothes against her skin coaxed her.

Morrigan had informed her of this possibility. A return of her sexual appetite, comparable to her years as a Warden. Caoilainn had assumed the absence of this symptom permanent, related to one of many unique conditions of her pregnancy. Having spent the first three months weak, nauseous, and exhausted made the mere idea of arousal absurd. But the current responses of her body could not be denied. Morrigan, in so many words, had encouraged her to release any shame and partake in self-pleasure.

Caoilainn stretched out on Alistair's bed. The black silk bedclothes Alistair had selected proved a welcome guilty pleasure as she reclined onto a large pile of pillows at the headboard. With a sigh, she reached below her gown, allowing the skirt to open, and reveal her heat to the coolness of the room.

The roundness of her belly proved only a minor deterrent. She closed her eyes; her hand met swollen labia, wetness, and heat and she nearly jolted upright at the sensitivity. As if the pregnancy heightened her senses, she took her time with an act she seldom engaged before now. But the motions came naturally, inviting comfort in recognition of herself as the source and recipient of this selfish satisfaction.

Her fingers spread the slickness, and she made a meager moan, twitching at the contact. Her eyes rolled up, opening as she regained control, noticing the contrast of the pale skin of her thighs on the ultra-black fabric. She shifted, needing another effort toward comfort, and pulled off her overdress. Throwing it on the floor, she reclined in only a thin shift.

And her hand returned, slow at first, reuniting with the sensitive region of herself she had nearly neglected. And it rejoiced, intensely and quick controlled spasms of her middle finger against the bundle coaxed her hips to rise, her body to writhe. She turned her head toward her pillows, letting them absorb her muffled moans. Slowed and sped paces alternated, she postponed her release. Alistair had taunted powerful orgasms from her with similar methods, and it always proved worthwhile.

So Caoilainn teased herself. Playing with her threshold, and curious when she would find a point of no return. She giggled, amused at the simplicity of this game and just as she did, she came undone.

"Maker." She gasped, back arching, abdominal muscles tightening, as pleasure washed over. More intense than any other climax she experienced, it swept vibrations from her head to her toes. And she prolonged it, continuing the light contact on the locus of arousal until the sensation ebbed. She regained her breath, and soon fell asleep.

* * *

"You're glowing, your majesty." Adalyn bowed her head, stepping into Caoilainn's office on the upper floor the next morning. "All is well with their majesties' heir, I assume?"

The faintest blush came to Caoilainn's cheeks, and she blinked, swallowing a smile fueled by her secret about the night before. She nodded. "All is quite well, thank you for asking." She poured them both cups of tea. "What news do you bring about our army?"

Adalyn reported, an update about the new training exercises Caoilainn had implemented through her second in command. Weaknesses of the royal army resided within their unity, failure to cooperate, and each soldier too interested in their glory in practice, gaining approval from Adalyn or whoever directed that day. Strengthening their connection and commitment became Caoilainn's priority, giving Adalyn direction for group exercises.

"There is still some resistance, but they are improving," Adalyn summarized the soldiers' progress and finished out the meeting. As Adalyn left, the messenger entered. Only one item arrived, a letter from Tantervale.

Caoilainn shut the door and sat at her desk to read.

 _21 Haring 9:42_

 _Tantervale_

 _C,_

 _You will not believe, Fiona was a Warden. She is_ _that_ _Fiona—as in, the same Fiona that you read about in the vault. She lied to us all. She lied to me. And for what purpose? She said it is a life she does not wish to relive, but I know she's hiding something. I'm furious._

 _What's worse, I have no reason to be this angry. Fiona owed me nothing. Yes, she attempted to befriend me for whatever reason, and like an idiot, I trusted her integrity. Yes, it would be helpful for her to have offered this information to us earlier since we are on a quest_ _for_ _the Wardens. But none of that justifies this reaction from me. Why should I be so concerned? Why spend my attention on something trivial in the end?_

 _I'm sorry to burden you with this information. I want to speak with you about it when I return. Why were Fiona's records held in Denerim instead of Weisshaupt? Do you know? Not that I care. I shouldn't care. I'm going to stop caring._

 _Anyway, I pray you are well. I realize my last letter might have been unfitting—unless you liked it. In which case, good, because it's all true._

— _Love, A_

"So she _is_ that Fiona," Caoilainn mumbled to no one, speaking aloud in the privacy of her office. Her heart sank on Alistair's behalf, feeling his poignant disappointment through his words.

Seeing through Alistair's deflection, she suspected he would fixate on Fiona's deceit until more information came to light, or he would leave. The assumption only inspired more questions about Alistair's next steps and Fiona's honesty, none with viable answers from Caoilainn's current position.

Without other obligations for the day, she donned her hood and ventured out of the palace. Dusty and damp, the Grey Warden vault within the Market District did not see many visitors. It looked the same as the last time she visited when she had returned to the city over six months prior. Walls lined with crates, the boxes held keepsakes, gifts from ambassadors to the Wardens and files about certain Wardens.

The crate where she had found the information about Fiona, filled with other unresolved cases of Wardens remained easy to reach, where she left it, near the surface of all the other items within the vault.

She opened it again, unsure what she was looking for or what she would find. Torn pages, paper so old the ink bled as after sitting in the damp storeroom, made much of the files illegible. From what Caoilainn could read, she found documents about Feredan Wardens marked as disappearing or discharged under inexplicable circumstances. Their records were deemed necessary to store in Denerim.

At some point, she found the page she had read before of the only cured Warden. Fiona— reported as cured of the Calling after a mission in the Deep Roads—had undergone the Joining multiple times to no avail, until she elected to go to the Chantry at her own accord, instead of staying with the Wardens. Missions to the Deep Roads were not unusual for any Grey Warden, and Caoilainn had not bothered to look further at her initial read.

But now, the report's suspicious absence of substance compelled her to keep searching, the details of the events leading to Fiona's cure left from the account. Caoilainn sighed and sat the paper down to peruse the rest of the docket. Other Wardens received reports, an Avvar, a Dwarf, _Utha_ , humans from Orlais were all listed as deceased, none cured.

The next Warden she found was Duncan.

 _Duncan._ Caoilainn gasped when she read the name and her chest tightened. A newly conscripted Warden, one of the two who did not perish on this quest, recorded as cooperative in the debriefing of mission and sent to Fereldan base.

 _Why would you keep this from us, Duncan?_

Heartache stemmed from weighed on her, but she did not stop reading. The next docket explained the mission itself. King Maric joined the Wardens into the Deep Roads where they came across the Architect. Only Maric, Duncan, and Fiona survived. The latter being both cured and pregnant upon return. The form failed to state the paternity of the child, or outcome for the baby.

 _Fiona was pregnant 32 years ago._

Frozen, Caoilainn stared at the paper. The reason for Fiona's secrecy glared at her, though the words blurred together. _The files are here because Fiona is Alistair's mother._

Only Caoilainn's need for breath stirred her from the trance. She closed the crate, keeping the papers in hand as she returned, hooded and discreet, to the seclusion of her office.


	27. Starkhaven

Fog clung to the grass. The field's colors ranged from green to brown on either side of the Minanter River, all decorated with a light layer of frost. As the group's journey continued east from Tantervale, the stone path of the Imperial highway disappeared, replaced with a vacant countryside. The moor's gentle slopes had invited them to Starkhaven and continued toward Ansburg.

Unlike the previous stops of their journey, their stay in Starkhaven the night prior was uneventful. But much changed for Nathaniel. His eyes followed Hale. She avoided him, riding her horse near Philippa's and forcing conversation. The return of his gaze landing on the young woman belied his efforts to look away.

But he didn't push Hale to talk. Lost in his confusion about an event from the night prior, he mulled.

 _He had a level of comfort within Starkhaven, even more than Tantervale. Though time had changed storefronts and the metropolis had grown, he understood where to take the group once within the stronghold's walls. Hilly cobbled streets required the others to strain on their trek. But Nathaniel navigated the city and detours without effort until they found a suitable inn and stayed for the night._

 _At this point, the group had a routine devised at their arrival to their inns. They ate and divided for the night, this time without any major conflict, still tired from the extended day of travel from Tantervale._

 _Nathaniel attributed much of their peace to the silence of Garrett Hawke. A welcome change to which Nathaniel claimed only a small portion of credit after confronting Hawke's behavior and suggesting he leave. Hale's punching him had contributed more to the reduction in the mage's attitude than anything._

 _Hawke's minor changes did not take priority in Nate's mind. Nathaniel noticed Hale's proximity to him since Tantervale had shifted. She met his eyes more often and rode her horse near his. The coldness she had emanated since their argument in the Plains had altered. He felt her warmth, magnetic and curious drawing his attention._

She's moving on, _Nathaniel thought, trying to explain away the change. The loss of her anger would allow their company to be simple, platonic. But he knew Hale, and the motivation seemed unlikely. Unsure how to address the subject, he waited for her to act on it._

 _And she did. A small, unexpected knock on Nathaniel's bedroom door in Starkhaven brought him to his feet from where he leaned on the edge of his bed, arms crossed as he deliberated over the journey. His thoughts had already returned to Hale before the sound at his door disrupted him._

 _Remembering the inn's reputation for its absence of bed bugs and the evening supply of warm milk, he expected to find a busboy at his door. Rather, a force of nature met him. Hale waited a brief second, flexing her hands at her sides before leaping onto him. Legs wrapping around his waist, her light frame gripped, and he instinctively supported her. His hands extended to grasp the lovely creature's muscled ass as her lips found his mouth. Her fingers laced through his messy black hair, tugging at him, both pulling him away and bringing him closer at the same time. She swung his door shut with her free arm._

 _Voracious growls and moans echoed as her mouth wandered across his face and neck and ears without stopping for air. He lost himself in her sounds, scent, and the sensations she coaxed, blood tingling from the needed physical contact. Mindlessly, he stepped back to the center of the room as his open palms relished her familiar curves. Hands wandered quickly across her body, hurrying to reconnect as if the moment might disappear should he fail to show adequate appreciation._

 _She gasped, finally forfeiting to her need for air. And as Nathaniel breathed through the pause, his mind cleared. Though his mouth watered for her, his cock hard for anything she offered, he managed to say, "No, Hale." Looking away, Nathaniel released her body; his hands lifted in surrender. He muttered, "Not like this."_

 _Her legs tightened around him, still hooked as she leaned away to create ample space between their faces. Confused and offended, she groaned. "What the fuck, Nate?"_

 _He frowned, meeting her green eyes glaring back with frustration. He related, annoyed with himself and his unwillingness to tread back the same path they had repeated, certain that if they acted on impulse, they would regret it in the morning. He couldn't find the words to tell her._ I love you, Huntress and I know this will not end well.

 _She scoffed, using his body for balance as she dropped to the ground. All too aware of his diminishing erection grazing her leather-clad legs as she lowered, Nathaniel had to withhold a tortured groan._

 _He could fuck her. The option recurred as she provoked lurid images in his mind. Hands trembling, sweaty, compelled to pin her to the wall, he took a deep breath. Engaging with the Huntress— once again combining their mutual depravity for heat and temporary gratification— could not fix him. The distraction would not change the reality of his disappointment in himself._

 _Though it took every ounce of effort, he sighed and said, "Hale, I… just don't know if that's a good idea."_

 _The words failed to explain the complicated, and conflicting desires stewing within him. But he had confessed his love before, and he had given in to carnal pleasure. He had even told her to leave, and no matter his choice, their reunions always ended the same._

 _Eyes narrowed on him, watery with rage, Hale inhaled and took a step toward the door. "Fine, then I'll leave if that's what you sodding want—"_

" _That's not what I said," he snapped, irritated with her assumption and with himself for his silence. Nathaniel clenched his hand in front of him and leaned back on his bed._

 _Hale stayed in place, one foot toward the door, only turning to address him. "I shouldn't've come." Squeezing her eyes shut, she mumbled under her breath. "A pox on me. Stupid." Another slow step took her to the exit._

" _Wait," he called, voice low and tired. Depleted from the interaction, and from his self-deprecating thoughts, the word 'stay' failed to find a voice. He remained frozen, expressionless, and with a longing to go to Hale so strong it kept him seated._

'Can you do nothing right?' _His father's words resounded, a painful reminder of the man's constant state of disapproval. It was justified, and Nathaniel's pattern for self doubt and ineptitude only manifested dishonorable outcomes. He knew it. His deficiencies as Warden Commander, Lieutenant, a friend to Caoilainn, and even as a partner to Hale had resulted from his brokenness. When he had asked her for commitment, she declined, and he didn't blame her._ Because this is all she wants.

 _Eyes stinging, blurry, Nathaniel met Hale's accusatory gaze._

 _It softened. Hale's brow wrinkled, confused._

" _Nate," she murmured, returning to him. She stood before Nathaniel, and he left his knees wide, giving her room to inch closer with tiny, tentative steps._

 _He sighed an exhausted laugh and pressed his thumb and middle finger against his eyes. Uncertain what to make of this surge of emotion, what it meant, and what Hale thought of him, he kept his head down. But she didn't urge him to talk. Instead, her back curved over him, and her head rested against his. Palms wide, tender and loving despite his misgivings, she soothed him by rubbing her hands along his slouched back. The crisp floral scent of her hair enveloped him._

 _And it opened something. Melting away layers of guilt and grief and resentment, Nathaniel felt warm tears sliding down his cheeks. The stressors that had only intensified the longer this quest lasted, along with the confusion of his relationship with this particular young woman built up and overflowed._

 _His body shook as silent sobs released for a few minutes that seemed to go on for an eternity. Until eventually, he reciprocated her embrace, wrapping his arms around Hale's waist. Another exhale freed the final weight of sadness, and he managed to look up to her._

 _Her untamed red hair managed to make her tan skin glow, and her eyes glistened. Nathaniel sniffed back the sorrow as his hand brushed a stray strand of hair behind her pointed ear. Another unspoken agreement, without any other words, they found his bed and fell asleep, Hale curved her small frame around his back._

 _Nathaniel woke when he heard her leave before dawn. He didn't stop her._

They hadn't spoken since. With the group's supplies replenished, they set off for the next two long days of travel by horseback to Ansburg. The morning came and went, and they continued as if leaving any other city.

The moors east of Starkhaven stretched onward, almost endless. The wide and worn path carved into the grass gave the convoy enough room to spread out. They trotted their horses at an even pace, not pushing the beasts to exhaustion without compromising their speed.

Hesitant to conclude anything from their interaction the night prior, Hale acted as if it hadn't happened. None in the group knew she had visited Nathaniel, that he had declined her advances, nor that he had _sobbed_ in front of her. They didn't need to know.

She had only seen Nate's eyes well up once in an argument when she left him in the Silent Plains, but it resulted from anger. Even Caoilainn's near-death-experience hadn't brought tears to his eyes. These tears said something else— a deep sadness Hale didn't understand.

 _I dunno if I wanna get it._ Hale realized another motivation for her distance from Nate. The consistently reserved man's vulnerability intimidated Hale, and she knew she was not equipped to help him. Her weak attempt at comforting him had seemed to allay his pain, or he had accepted the limits of her inexperience.

No one else in the group knew she had shared a bed with him, and none would have believed they didn't have sex. _Almost._ Her stomach fluttered remembering the heat that bound them when she had burst in his room. She cleared her throat.

Hale felt the weight of Nate's recurring gaze as she rode. It frustrated her, assuming he expected something. _But what?_

Distracting herself, Hale asked Philippa about her thoughts on the Warden cure. The conversation drifted, with little involvement on Hale's part to the experience of mage Wardens through the events of the mage and Templar conflict. Hale listened absentmindedly and nodded in agreement when necessary.

And frustrated curiosity kept bringing her mind to Nate. Certain he was looking at her, she did not turn around. _Who was he before the Wardens?_ She had pondered since Tantervale— when Nathaniel had almost left them for a woman he had obviously slept with years prior.

A tinge of jealousy had crept into her mind, not resulting from the interest of another woman, but rather because the woman had known another version of Nate. She imagined Nathaniel free from his obligations the Wardens, the stressors of his role as Lieutenant to the Bitch Queen, and now as the Warden Commander. _I wanna know that Nate._

 _Don't matter._ Hale reminded herself, knowing where Nathaniel's priorities currently lay. Still embittered about the painful outcomes of her other attempts to move on, her return to Nathaniel last night wrought embarrassment.

When dusk reached them, the group stopped to make camp. Hale ignored the debate within her mind, arguing if Nate's bedroll was an option and slept in Philippa's tent instead.

The same continued the following day, and by the evening, the city of Ansburg came into sight. Still avoiding Nate, Hale slept in Philippa's tent again when they camped outside of the town.

Other municipalities nestled on the Minanter had derived much of their economies from the river, but as the group entered they discovered Ansburg found harmony between its architecture and the river's branches. The city's low altitude kept buildings close to the ground, but the town spread for miles in each direction. Two watery channels operated like streets, lined with buildings transporting goods and people from the north and south and east and west ends of the city. Sunlight reflecting off the water made the city even brighter.

The number of docks exceeded the number of stables, and the group was forced to linger the outskirts of the town before they found a stable with any vacancy. With the horses secured, their belongings on their backs, they wasted no time before heading to the Warden Base.

With Hawke's guidance, the group boarded wooden catamarans to carry them northward on the river branch. The operators looked nervous when they stated their destination and had insisted on payment before they set off.

Nathaniel occupied a boat with Philippa and Hale, studying the city's construction from a new perspective. Shops catered to the nautical activity, and despite the heavy traffic among catamarans and small barges within the stream, no collisions occurred. Succinct and comfortable, the town operated in a chaotic unison.

As their boat drifted north and the city disappeared. The lonely moor returned, grasses blowing as a chilly breeze passed over, and the looming shadow of the stronghold resting at the end of small river cast over them. A worn Warden banner twisted in the wind, tattered and indiscernible. A gate door opened at the inlet in the grimy stone rampart, allowing them to enter. Their boat attendants pushed long sticks into the depths of the water, propelling them into the keep and all sunlight vanished.

 _There are Wardens here._ Someone had opened the gate, and Nathaniel felt the Grey Warden bond buzzing weakly nearby. The glowing lanterns within the darkness of the interior dock reaffirmed his evaluation. But the dock appeared empty.

The catamaran operators did not escort them off their vessels. Instead, they pushed the boats as close to the stone floors as possible and allowed the group to scramble themselves and their items to the ground. The drivers did not wait for their satisfaction with their trip before hurrying back toward the city.

"Well, this isn't creepy," Alistair muttered as he craned his neck to look around the estuary.

"It's just old," Nathaniel responded, minimizing Alistair's concern while lighting a torch on a lantern. In truth, Nathaniel agreed. But they had come too far to let fear deter them.

Alistair sneered. "Right. Then you will have no problem leading us down that old, moldy, cobwebbed, and odorous hallway to the rest of the keep, will you?" A small flight of stairs guided a cavernous passage, running parallel to a human-made leg of the stream. All of it disappeared into the dark depths of the keep.

Torch in hand, Nathaniel rolled his eyes and took a confident step up the stairway. At the same time, a loud banging echoed through the hall. Nathaniel yelled incoherently, dropping the torch at the hall's entrance and taking a step back in defense.

The startled group stood frozen waiting to identify the cause of the noise. Nathaniel picked up the torch and waited, peeling his eyes to see through the pitch.

"Go on then," Alistair goaded from below. "It's just old."

Speaking over his shoulder, Nathaniel said, "Shut up, Alistair. I think I hear something." He turned his ear to the hall, trying to identify the source of shuffling noise coming from within. As he waited, he pulled a dagger from his belt. He heard the squeaking pull of Hale's bowstring behind him.

The shuffling vibrations of noise cleared to footsteps, many feet, walking in unison, as it drew nearer, and the hum of the Warden bond radiated. The rattling of scaled armor emerged from within the footsteps, and the glow of a magical light appeared, growing closer.

A man's voice preceded the appearance of the speaker, coming out of the shadows. "Weapons down, Wardens."

Letting his weapon fall to his side, Nathaniel held the torch toward the darkness. A man appeared, donned in Warden armor with a golden griffon carved into the chest plate. He must have been in his late fifties; his grey hair trimmed tightly on the sides and parted neatly. _The_ _High Constable._ Lower level Wardens, dressed in standard level armor followed behind.

Second in command to the First Warden, the High Constable operated as the liaison between the Grey Wardens and the rest of Thedas. Lessons on the Wardens had explained the High Constable's original position as the leader of the aerial forces when griffons were still an element of the Warden army.

Before Nathaniel could cross his arm over his chest in a Warden salute, the man walked past him and repeated, "I said weapons down."

"Tell us yer name first and I will!" Hale called from the lower platform, her nocked arrow following the man as he came to a stop at the top of the stairs.

" _Hale, stand down."_ Nathaniel hissed, unwilling to speak over a higher ranking Warden.

"I am the High Constable of the Grey, Cohen Bryant, and you will lower your weapon or leave this keep for insubordination."

Narrowing her eyes, Hale scanned the High Constable from head to toe before she lowered her bow. Without breaking eye contact, she put her arm over her chest to salute him.

"High Constable," Nathaniel stepped to the man's side. "Permission to speak, sir."

Frowning, Cohen moved his glare from Hale to Nathaniel and nodded.

"Please forgive the Junior Warden." Nathaniel leaned his head toward Hale and explained their circumstances. "We have not found another living Warden since we left Ferelden. However, we have come across many dead and dying in the form of ghouls, sir. It is only with a vigilant effort that we made it here."

"Warden Commander Howe, is it?" Cohen replied, evaluating Nathaniel with a critical eye. Nathaniel only nodded. "Yes, we received the letter from the former Commander in Ferelden about her return to the throne. But in the wake of recent events, I was unable to reply on the First Wardens behalf."

"We found his… remains in Weisshaupt, among others. Based on his writings, he was not well." Uncomfortable recalling the gruesome discovery they had made at the stronghold, Nathaniel swallowed.

"That's a shame." Cohen's mouth pressed, serious in his disappointment. "He was determined to find a solution before he sent half the army and I here to Ansburg. I could only trust him, though I questioned his stability."

"Rightly so," Alistair called from below, stepping up the stairway to the rest of them. "King Alistair Theirin, former Warden. Ender of the fifth Blight. The previous Fereldan Warden Commander is my wife." He crossed his arm over his chest before extending his hand toward the High Constable's.

He took it, a confused look twisting his brow. "You are no longer a Warden, King Alistair."

Alistair's pointed finger tapped the air between them. "You are correct in that evaluation, and I can explain. Perhaps we could find somewhere to place our bags and bathe before so doing? The others in our group are sure to have helpful contributions to such a conversation." He extended his arm to the rest of the party, still standing together and waiting in silence.

Cohen's gaze followed, expressions confused. Clearing his throat, Nathaniel spoke up. "My apologies, High Constable. You have already met Junior Warden Hale." He omitted her relation to the Inquisitor for the time being. His hand extended to the others. "Senior Warden Philippa, the Champion Garrett Hawke, and another former Warden and former Grand Enchanter, Fiona." As Nathaniel reached the place she should have stood he realized the third mage was not present on the lower level.

" _Fiona_?" Echoing Nathaniel's introduction, Cohen turned his head and shifted his eyes. "Am I missing something?"

All of them looked around for the missing woman, but the dock was vacant aside from them. Philippa and Hale gave pointed stares in Hawke's direction.

"What?" He shrugged, sending his arms wide in each direction. "She didn't say anything to me. I'm just here to look pretty, and I'm doing my job."

"Warden Shea," Cohen called to one of the Wardens that followed him. "Direct our new guests to rooms in the Revas wing. We will convene for a meeting at noon, and hopefully, our missing person will appear. If not we will discuss our next steps in locating her during said meeting." He addressed the travel party individually as he spoke, his demeanor softening as he shed propriety. "Wardens, Hawke, King Alistair, I look forward to learning whatever intel you have gathered. These are dark times for the Order of the Grey and your arrival is long overdue."


	28. Ansburg

It was difficult for Fiona to breathe in the damp air of the narrow hallway. Darkness surrounded her, external light growing sparser the deeper within the stronghold she went. But she persisted, assuming she could find her way to safety within Ansburg's Keep without catching the eye of any Wardens.

 _Someone could recognize me._ She justified running, having realized the detail as the group awaited whoever emerged from the shadows. At that moment, she fled, trusting plans to unfold as needed, and praying to Andraste her deeds were forgivable.

The others had missed the small doorway to the hall beneath the rampart, hidden in the shadows of the platform where they unloaded. Despite its obvious disuse, the passage seemed mostly intact. Holes in the walls and floors were full of dirt; insects crawled from the cracks in the stones. But she ignored them, determined to find entry to the Keep and a place to hide.

Blue light glowed from her staff, illuminating her path, and she hurried forward until a voice reverberated from whatever was on the other side of the darkness ahead. _I'm close to something._ Fiona dimmed the magical light and held her breath, taking small, silent steps forward until she reached what must have been a door.

"Other Wardens have arrived." A woman's voice spoke dutifully. "The Constable Cohen directed them to the Revas wing." The sound of multiple pairs of shuffling feet halted.

Another voice groaned. "We're boarding them? Shouldn't we let the healers examine them first? They could carry whatever this _illness_ is that everyone's been experiencing."

"I don't ask questions, Jonathan. I just follow orders. But they looked fine. Dirty, but healthy," the woman replied without humoring Jonathan's complaint. "The High Constable

has ordered informing Warden Commander Llewellyn, the Chamberlain Tierney, and Constable Bridgette of our guests' arrival. An assembly is in the courtyard in an hour."

"Fine." Jonathan sighed, defeated. The sound of feet walking faded as Fiona waited by the door.

 _I must get in._ With a deep breath, Fiona nudged softly. The door didn't budge, stuck with time and weathering, swollen in the doorframe. She pushed again, harder but with an effort to control how quickly the door swung open. It creaked as if it wanted to open, the damp wood absorbing her impact. Pausing, she listened for any other voices, footsteps or the creaks of doors.

The silence confirmed a chance to try again. With another breath drawn, Fiona braced herself and slammed her shoulder into the door. It dislodged, groaning as it finally freed from the tight squeeze of the doorframe. She had to counter her movement, pulling the handle in to prevent the door from swinging open.

Regaining her breath, she remained silent and peered through the crack of the newly budged doorway, gathering as much information as possible on the contents of the space beyond the entry while listening for any signs of detection. A hallway with barren walls stretched in one direction, and an adjacent corridor ahead. A few footsteps in the distance did not come nearer, and no voices arose from the silence. At some point, she took another deep breath and opened the door wide enough to slip through.

Heart racing, she kept close to the wall, conscientious of the space she took up and the sounds of activity echoing from other ends of the Keep. As if every step threatened her detection, caution took her to the adjacent corridor.

When she neared, the sigil of a griffon mounted to the wall caught her eye. Embossed gold, the animal's wings spread, it held a banner in its talons that read, " _Shrike_." _The name of the wing,_ she determined, hoping if she ventured further, she would find the hall named "Revas."

But the hope was cut short. The sound of voices from behind her disrupted the quiet, followed immediately by fast footsteps. Fiona knew her options were limited and the time to decide was fleeting.

She inhaled and sped forward, hooking the corner of the nearby hall. Afraid to stop, her hurried strides continued to find cover. Identical to the prior corridor, closed wooden-doors with identical levered handles dotted the walls, the contents of the rooms within unknown. And the footsteps continued, nearing the turn. _I'll be found._

She held her breath and took a risk. Grasping a handle of a random door, she prayed to the Maker and the beloved Andraste for safety on the other side. She swiveled to close it behind her before surveying who or what was in the room.

"Grand Enchanter." An amused voice mirrored her entry. "If you wanted a secret rendezvous, you only had to ask."

Fiona's heart sank. She turned to find the speaker, Garret Hawke, shirtless. Teeth clenched in a grimace, Fiona could only give a wordless frown. The thought of returning to the hallway flickered in her mind.

"Oh, come on." Hawke's smirk vanished. "It looks like you need some help. What's with the vanishing act, anyway? Scared you'll run into someone you know?"

She sighed. He was right; she needed help, though Hawke was the person she'd ask for it. "In so many words, yes." Annoyed with her honesty and the predicament, Fiona crossed her arms. "I need time to gather my thoughts. That's all."

"A place to hide, then?" Gesturing to the room, he nodded his head. "I never took you as the sneaky type, Fiona. Nonetheless, my room is yours, and my lips are sealed."

Fiona's stomach tightened. "In exchange for what?"

"As much as I'd like to say nothing, that would be a lie." He smiled, stepping to his bed and digging through a bag. "But aside from an ally, I haven't decided what I need, just yet. We'll have to settle with an I-owe-you."

She didn't have an alternative, and they both knew it. Her shoulder loosened, letting her bag fall to the floor. "Thank you, Champion."

* * *

They would probably be there for a while, Alistair assumed as he unpacked his bag in the room the Ansburg Wardens had provided. This new collection of Wardens, some from across Thedas, had their observations of the Order's crisis. It seemed their chances of finding a solution were better now than they had ever been.

The good news didn't abate his frustration with Fiona. Her secrets were blaring, and her disappearance only made them louder. His trust in her had already diminished since that night in Tantervale. She had attempted to pretend they were fine, greeting him the following morning and making idle conversation. Alistair did not entertain it; he replied with short one-word answers until she stopped trying. Until now, he determined he needed time to regain the missing trust, unwilling to push himself for the sake of Fiona's comfort. But with her departure, it vanished— as did Fiona.

It stirred residual anger toward Caoilainn. When she had returned to Vigil's Keep without so much as a note explaining her actions; it destroyed him. He remembered his pain and resentment, excessive drinking and desperation. He had stooped to sending spies to Vigil's Keep to gather information about her, and he still wasn't proud. Every ounce of his forgiveness had been required to endure that hardship.

He refused to return to that place. Without drink, he wouldn't succumb to rage. He could see Fiona's actions reflected her true colors, and it confirmed she wasn't worth his time. Whatever kindness she had expressed must have arisen from residual shame around her actions on Redcliffe. He had shown patience, not condemning her beyond banishment from Ferelden. When this quest was over, the exile would stand.

He had more important concerns to busy himself, with an ultimate goal of returning to Caoilainn and their child. He let his mind wander back to them, collecting his thoughts before washing up before the meeting. When he returned, he planned to write to Caoilainn.

* * *

Nathaniel emerged from his room to find the others with the Warden called Shea. Waiting in the Revas hall, Shea spoke to them about features of the Keep and its peculiarities from the other Warden strongholds. Her hair pulled back in a tight bun matched her demeanor, she was professional, straight-laced, and loyal to the Order. He assumed she would direct them to the right location.

Few decorations marked the walls, aside from the gold sigil naming the corridor. It surprised Nathaniel, accustomed to Caoilainn's methods of decorating, honoring the regions the Fereldan Wardens protected, displaying loyalty to the throne, and embracing the history of the Grey. Banners and sigils for households across Ferelden lined the walls at Vigil's Keep.

"Has anyone heard from Fiona?" Nathaniel asked the group as he joined them, securing his braids together at the back of his head in the process. In such proximity to the group indoors, his height felt prominent.

They all shook their heads, glancing to one another to see if any had some information. Shea added, "The last I checked, there was no word of her downstairs, but High Constable Cohen sent a team to search the grounds. They'll find her if she's here."

"I doubt she got far," Philippa said, fixing the collar of her robes. "I'm sure she only has cold feet."

As they walked, Shea extended her arm, directing them down the Shrike hallway toward a stairwell to a lower floor.

Gazing over their heads, Nathaniel peered through the hall for any signs of the missing woman. "Her cold feet were poorly timed. We need everyone working together now more than ever."

The closer they came to their destination, the bleaker the deserted Keep appeared. Rooms designed for chores and training, study and sleep were empty. Dust had settled onto the table tops and chairs. Closed doors indicated rooms potentially occupied, and they were few and far between.

Unaware of the influence of the desolate hall, Hawke chuckled and patted Nathaniel on the back. "I bet we'll find she's been right under our noses this whole time."

Hale looked over her shoulder and chimed in, "Don't matter. If she's too chicken to show her face, we don't fuckin' need her slowin' us down."

"I couldn't agree more." The stern reply came from Alistair. A surprise to Nathaniel, as the man rarely agreed with Hale on much of anything, and especially not as strongly as he sounded in that moment.

But Alistair gave no further explanation before they reached their destination. Double doors opened to a large courtyard. High walls of aged stone covered in vines, green from moss and mold, enclosed the ground space. Benches sitting in overgrown grass— clearly unattended as the Warden numbers dwindled— formed a wide semicircle around a white emblem of the griffon and chalice set within the ground. Three Wardens sat with the High Constable, occupying seats on two of the benches. Shea gestured for the group to join before returning to the interior of the Keep.

Alistair and Nathaniel led the party, divided, and direct on their paths to separate benches. The others followed, Hale joining Nathaniel and Philippa beside Alistair; Hawke sat by himself.

"Thank you for traveling so far." The High Constable said, ending the conversation between the other leaders and bringing their attention to the entire group. He nodded to each of them.

Grim-faced, Nathaniel's lips pressed as he shook his head. "It was our duty; thanks are unnecessary. The Order's fate depends on our cooperation."

A scoffing sound from Hawke's bench echoed; Nathaniel ignored it.

The High Constable gave an approving nod. "Let's not waste time then. As you know, I am High Constable Cohen." He directed his gaze to the woman next to him. "This is Constable Bridgette from Orlais."

"Bonjour." The woman smiled. Strands of her wild and curly hair sprung from the loose tie at the back of her head. She must have been near Nathaniel's age. Freckles marked her sun-kissed skin across the bridge of her nose.

 _"_ Bonjour," he mumbled back.

High Constable Cohen continued. "Chamberlain Tierney from Ansburg." The mustached man at the neighboring bench hummed agreement. His chest and belly suggested he enjoyed a pint of beer more often than he met the training yard, but his posture minimized the extent. Either he sucked in his gut, or he wore underclothes to contain his fat. "And finally, Warden Commander Llewellyn, also from Ansburg." The last man looked wiry. Tall and thin, with a hooked nose over a constant frown, exacerbated by drooping jowls. The man vaguely resembled Nathaniel's father. He gave no greeting at his introduction.

After introducing the other leaders, the High Constable quickly named the members of the travel party. Each gave a wave or a nod at the sound of their name.

Llewellyn grumbled after Hawke's name was called. "If we are done, more pressing matters are at stake than the triviality of our names. We are crumbling into ghouls, Cohen."

Clearing her throat, Bridgette furrowed her brow in concern. Her accent rang through every word. "From my research, nothing like this has happened to the Wardens before. Those lost in the past were due to Blights, darkspawn, and the inevitable Calling."

Tierney said, exasperated. "We can't identify a cause."

 _Alistair._ Knowing the culprit of the source of the ailment they all faced sat among them, Nathaniel raised his hand to his mouth and made a poignant hem.

The King sighed and adjusted in his seat. "Right, I suppose that would be my cue to explain." Visibly reluctant, Alistair paused to find his words and then spoke. "Caoilainn and I found a cure for the Calling, or rather, the mages found it." He leaned his head to Philippa beside him, all but pointing his finger at her. "But they used it on us, and it worked. Since the former Warden Commander and I's cure, it seems to have evoked this… problem."

"You did _what?"_ Llewellyn yelled; his already flushed cheeks turned darker.

Bridgette's hand waived away Llewellyn's outrage. _"_ Tell us, how is this possible?"

Cohen sat in silence, somber, staring at the ground. A bird flew into the courtyard and sat on the rim of a birdbath in the corner. Dipping its wings in the water, it shed tiny droplets as it gave itself a sporadic bath.

"I take responsibility." Proud, an unashamed, Philippa raised her hand. "Morrigan found guidance from the Arbor Wilds and with me and the mage Fiona, we combined our efforts to brew the cure." She explained the bath, the ritual, and a vague enough list of the ingredients to satisfy the others' curiosity. "I cannot be sure if the cure would work again on another Warden."

Llewellyn spat his reply at the end of Philippa's explanation. "How could you possibly think that is a good idea? Are you ill?"

Snickering from his lone bench, Hawke muttered, "Well, yes, technically."

Oblivious to their conflict, the bird sang a pleasant tune as it dried its wings from its bath. Nathaniel noticed the padding of tall grass beneath his feet and the abundance of life within this desolate stronghold.

"I did what I thought was best for our country," Philippa replied, voice strong with conviction. "The throne needed an heir, and their majesties stood no chance of maintaining the livelihood of their reign."

The argument Nathaniel had with Caoilainn upon her request for him to assume the role of Warden Commander tiptoed around the selfish nature of her choice to pursue the cure. But Nathaniel's feelings of betrayal and the twisted sense of jealousy he held toward Alistair prevented him from stating the decision as foolhardy. _I was the fool._ Anger had won over reason and clouded his judgment.

"Typical Fereldans." Warden Commander Llewellyn said, shaking his head in disdain. "You may have doomed us all, and the rest of Thedas when the next Blight occurs. All for the sake of your throne." Tierney harrumphed his agreement.

"I will not have that here." Cohen's hand on his lap formed a fist. He watched the bird fluttering its wings before he looked to Tierney. "What's done is done, and now we must find a cure. Soon, preferably, as our fates are waiting."

Tierney and Llewellyn bickered amongst themselves but kept their voices low so none could hear.

"How many do you have left?" Philippa questioned, changing the subject in a hurry.

"Wardens? Intact?" Cohen's fingers twitched as he counted while speaking. "Many are safely sedated, but more are still standing. I would say around a hundred total, including us. We lost most before we knew what to do. Orlais is no more, aside from Constable Bridgette."

"We had close to that when we left Vigil's Keep," Nathaniel replied, looking up as he pictured the size of their forces before he left Ferelden. "I am not sure what the numbers are like now. Our magical strength is strong, fortunately. The mages who remain know to tend for those who have fallen ill."

"We didn't give in to the false Calling," Hale added, explaining the theory she had pieced together with Philippa since the night she fell from the tree in the Emerald Graves.

"Oui," Bridgette replied, frowning. Sadness lined her words. "When the Inquisitor slew Livius Erimond, our Wardens were free from the false Calling. But our chapter was already divided by deceit and lies. Some were still slaves to Corypheus."

Nathaniel understood Caoilainn's efforts better now than ever. "With Warden Commander Cousland's guidance, we managed to resist the false Calling. Our bond remained strong."

"And in doing so, you neglected your brethren." Teary-eyed, Bridgette frowned at Nathaniel. "Had you joined us sooner, you may have strengthened our bond. We could have escaped Erimond's grasp."

Nathaniel's face burned, as he realized he had managed to offend her without even trying. He wasn't sure why her watery green glare unsettled him.

"I am sorry, Constable Bridgette, but I'm not sure how much help we would have been. We could have lost more Wardens, or worse provided additional forces to Corypheus." He defended, resisting the urge to hold up his hands by gripping the edges of the bench around him. The stone rubbed on the insides of his palms. "Caoilainn did only as the First ordered."

"Well now we know he was a daft wanker," Hale's matter-of-fact comment was followed with hums of agreement from the others in the group.

Cohen sighed; the man had served as the First Warden's right-hand and likely knew more of his instability than any of them. His eyes seemed blank, vacant, lost in a memory. "This illness runs deep. It seems the division of the Order is killing us from within."

"Does that mean we're too late?" Nathaniel asked, brow furrowed as he studied Cohen's somber demeanor. The man did not seem optimistic.

The faintest sense of irritation lined Philippa's announcement, "A cure."

"What?" Cohen's grimace suggested he did not agree, let alone understand.

"The cure is the cure," Philippa repeated as if the short addition somehow explained her entire philosophy.

"You'll have to say more," Alistair spoke lowly to the sorceress beside him.

"Must I spell it out for all of you?" The sorceress huffed and leaned forward. "As of today, three Wardens have now been cured of the Calling. The cure has been in front of you the entire time. If we cure the entire order, the bond will be erased, and we can begin anew. The Wardens may rejoin."

"Fiona was unable to rejoin." The High Constable replied stone-faced. "She didn't even know how her cure happened, and something about the process prevented her from returning to the bond. Your plan threatens to eradicate the Order of the Grey." Nathaniel thought he was certain he saw Cohen glancing to Alistair. Hawke snickered nearby.

"Be logical." The sorceress sneered, crossing her arms over her chest. One hand lifted as she spoke. "At worst, it saves us all from turning into ghouls. At best, it revives the Grey Wardens."

"But will they all choose to rejoin?" Nathaniel pondered aloud, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees. "Now that they all know their fates, the choice to live without an early demise could be appealing. How many would choose to stay?"

"I'd stay." Crossing her legs, Hale answered with a tone of vehemence toward anyone considering she might leave. "Fuck going back." Her top leg continued to bounce in visible irritation.

Nathaniel knew Hale had little outside of the Grey Wardens. A life of thieving led to her conscription, and now her only friends served at her side. He imagined her frustration stemmed from the idea they might choose to leave. _Does she care if I stay?_

"If only all were as loyal as you." Cohen gave a sad smile to the young woman.

Twirling his mustache, Tierney grumbled. "And that's the problem. We've lied to too many to get them here. If they resent the Wardens, they won't rejoin."

"And if they stay, it fosters the divide." Llewellyn continued Tierney's pessimism.

Hale's fidgeting finally erupted, bringing her to her feet. The bird at the distant birdbath flew away with a screech. Hands placed firmly on her hips, Hale chastised the rest of them. "You bastards are talkin' like you ain't sodding Wardens yerselves. Would _you_ rejoin?" She glared around the circle. A few feeble nods answered her question. Nathaniel's face remained neutral. "You're loyal, yeah? Maybe the rest of us might be too?"

Fingers laced, Cohen leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He rested his chin on his hands. "How will you do this, Philippa?" Lines of worry marked his forehead, but his tone sounded hopeful for the first time since the assembly began.

Her crossed arms unfurled, and she also stood up. Her gaze traveled to Alistair. "I have some ideas."


	29. First Day

_22 Haring 9:42_

 _Starkhaven_

 _My love,_

 _Writing to you is my only relief in this prolonged disaster. It's lonely here. It's lonely everywhere we go. I don't talk to anyone. I can't stand most of them. Since Fiona revealed her true colors, I have kept my distance. The routine only makes it worse. Day in and out, riding, walking, eating, sleeping, just to do it all over again._

 _All this silence gives me too much time to think and worry. I fear daily something has happened to you, or that you've chosen to leave out of anger. When my thoughts are darkest, I fear you've done something drastic with the baby. I hate these thoughts and I hope they aren't true. Please, don't let them be true._

 _I want to come home._

 _We'll be in Ansburg in a few more days. A few more days of riding and we'll reach our destination. I hope this is over soon. Maker's breath, I miss you. It's painful sometimes. I'll write again when we reach the Marches Keep._

 _Your love,_

 _A_

28 Haring, 9:42

Snow and frigid temperatures marked the final days of the tumultuous year. Thick beds of snow lingered, too cold to melt and in turn, perpetuating the chilly weather. The persistent cold crept into Fereldan homes, causing residents to pile on their warmest clothing even in the comfort of their own homes. Stacks of smoke rose from every building throughout Denerim, showing citizens meager attempts to warms their houses despite the weather.

Bundled in layers, Caoilainn halted her walk when she realized the sad contents of Alistair's letter. Underclothes covered her legs beneath her shift and the extra fabric made her overdress snug. A hood draped around her shoulders. She regretted her decision to snag the letter from her desk on her way to the training yard.

Caoilainn's face burned. The note was painful to read and she did not grace it with a second review. Gloom had overtaken the usual fervor in Alistair's previous communications, contaminating his affection. It replaced love and confidence with doubt and dread, discarding his faith in her.

Again, Alistair lost his faith in their resilience. His worry that she would leave, abandoning him and the throne once again made her blood boil with indignance. Her body temperature rose in her winter attire. _Did he forget that he left me here this time?_

After her pleas for forgiveness and her admission of truth, he left her in Denerim to join the rest to Weisshaupt. The current situation, the cause for his ire so casually projected onto her, resulted from his decision to leave and divide them. Had he chosen to stay, these hardships would not plague them. Instead, she could prove herself.

 _'Do something drastic with the baby.'_ The words made her rapidly beating heart sink to her stomach. And in spite of her best efforts to find a less damaging accusation, she assumed the worst. _He thinks I might seek a healer to end the pregnancy. He believes me unfit to mother his child._ Alistair's casually delivered idea that would end the pregnancy out of anger with him — even after all she sacrificed, having gone through so much to conceive the child — made her light-headed. She leaned against a wall. Infuriated, she waved the folded letter against her face to cool herself down.

With a moment to catch her breath and calm her nerves, the sound of metal crashing against metal echoed from the practice yard. It subsided her anger, a familiar distraction from growing rage. Although she wanted to throw the letter away, Caoilainn stubbornly folded it and stuck it in her pouch. She would decide what to do with it and how to manage these spiked emotions when she was done consulting with Adalyn. After pushing through the double doors, she pulled her hood over her head as she hurried through the armory to the yard.

The oversight of the training took little time. Adalyn had requested Caoilainn observe the field in their meeting the day prior. The Lieutenant was open to any suggestions to improve their defensive techniques, and the communication only bolstered Caoilainn's trust in the woman since she had appointed her to the position. With some time to witness the army in action, Caoilainn spotted the delays in communication between soldiers. She gave her recommendation to Adalyn and ordered her to report back the following day.

The interaction was painless, simple, and she made an excuse to linger in the yard, offering individuals suggestions on their techniques. But the longer she stayed, avoiding her return to the palace, the more the cold crept beneath her clothes and into her bones. Caoilainn returned indoors.

Her return to the palace brought the return of resentment. The folded letter remained in her pouch, gnawing her to read it again, biting through the cold that had followed her inside. Quick steps took her to the large fireplace at the end of the grand hallway— the same hall she had walked on her wedding day and again during her coronation.

Now empty, only Caoilainn and the fireplace occupied by the long room. Occasionally staff rushed along the sides to the other wings of the palace, either not noticing Caoilainn or not wishing to bother her. She didn't mind. The steady crackling of the fire calmed her. She watched the large orange flames rise from behind their cage, and ash consumed embers when they fell from the burning log. The warmth was soothing.

All her compassion for Alistair's hardship— his personal misery to which she played a major contribution— could not pardon what Alistair suggested in the letter. As easy as it would be to explain away his poor choice of words with his deflated mood, she didn't want to pity him, just as much out of respect as frustration.

She took the letter from her pouch. Unfolding it, she glanced only at his signature. With a whisper, "I love you, Alistair," she let go and dropped the parchment into the fire without a second thought. It floated down, igniting before landing and disappearing, devoured by flames. The scratches of ink vanished before her eyes could be lured into reading them again, and the added kindling sent a wave of hot air to her face.

She felt lighter, her tension released as the evidence of Alistair's inconsideration ceased to exist, no longer haunting her with questions of his faith. With a sigh, she found herself humming, continuing to stare into the fireplace. One hand rubbed her belly and the other pressed against the mantle.

With closed eyes, suddenly tired from the emotional morning, Caoilainn allowed her hum to become an absent-minded song— one she had heard her mother sing to her countless times as a small child. The hum grew as her lips parted.

 _"Andraste, guide us_

 _To the time of our freedom and honor._

 _To our baby, our young lady_

 _Fair and noble maiden._

 _"Little baby, hear my love._

 _I'm beside you, bright maiden,_

 _Our young lady, grow to see,_

 _Your land, your own faithful land."_

Morrigan's voice interrupted Caoilainn's solace. "'Tis a boy you are expecting, remember?"

Caoilainn had either been so lost in her reverie, or Morrigan walked so silently, she hadn't heard the footsteps. The Witch of the Wilds came to Caoilainn's side at the fireplace. Different from Morrigan's usual attire, the woman wore a heavy floor-length cloak and long.

Caoilainn grumbled her reply, "I have not forgotten. It happens to be the only children's song I know."

"Quite fitting for a maiden as noble and fair as yourself." Morrigan jabbed, knowing the meaning of Caoilainn's name and the woman Eleanor had expected Caoilainn to become. Morrigan's sarcasm softened and she extended a hand to Caoilainn's on the mantelpiece. "Are you feeling well?"

"I'm better now." Glancing back into the flames, Caoilainn saw no remnants of the letter she had burned.

* * *

1 Wintermarch, 9:43

Crisp winds brought in the new year and failed to down out the commotion in the Denerim square. Yelling and clanging resounded off city walls and rattled the windows of the palace, waking Caoilainn. She smiled. The town did not wait to begin their celebrations of First Day, and she planned to join them.

She rose from her bed and readied; memories of another First Day came to mind.

 _1 Wintermarch 9:33_

 _Music reverberated from somewhere in the commotion. The city was alive, vibrant, active, and far more crowded than a typical business day. Merchants and townsfolk celebrated at the sight of every person they saw as if they hadn't seen each other the evening prior. Dancing erupted at random when songs called for it, and the chilly breeze carried scents of cake and cooked meats based on which direction it blew. Happy shrieks of children unable to resist the urge to play, even within the confines of the crowded streets, broke through the hum of festive noise. Heaps of snow pushed from walkways created barricades along the streets._

 _Bright-eyed and eager to reap the benefits of her hard work, Caoilainn squeezed Alistair's hand as they waited for the gate to the city to open. He returned her gesture lovingly. She noticed how small her palm felt in his._

 _The city had recovered while she defended Amaranthine, giving them the chance to safely celebrate First Day for the first time as King and Queen. A fresh start, the holiday symbolized more than she could tell Alistair— the chance to set aside her misdeeds and step away from her guilt. She would be the wife and Queen she intended when she agreed to marry him._

 _Crowns donned, dressed in red and gold, the pair emerged from the palace gates to the city's market. Streets were lined with food and drink vendors, people dressed in their warmest attire, and bands playing music suddenly stopped. A moment later, the city uproared. Citizens closest to them kneeled and cheers for Alistair emerged from the back of the crowd._

 _With a sheepish grin, Alistair leaned his head to whisper in Caoilainn's ear. The pure heat radiating from his body joined his hot breath and tickled her ear. "I have no idea what I'm supposed to do now."_

 _She hid a giggle behind her smile and tilted her chin to indicate she wanted to whisper back. He lowered his head so she could speak. "I'd recommend saying something a king would say."_

 _They were both too young to take on this responsibility. She knew that when they assumed the roles, but there had been no other options. Only a few months her senior, Alistair had a greater disadvantage, raised without the guidance of Teyrn and Teyrna for parents. Caoilainn understood his reluctance to take the throne even though he was the rightful heir._

 _Alistair chuckled and shrugged. The red of his hair highlighted the red in his cheeks, illuminating the subtle freckles of his tan skin. "And what would that be, exactly?"_

 _Rolling her eyes, she curled her finger for him to lower his head again. "I think you should thank the Maker or something like that, your majesty." She kissed his clean-shaven cheek._

 _He nodded and tapped his finger to his nose before pointing to her— a sign of approval for her recommendation._

 _With that, he stepped forward to the crowd and waved his hand for those closest to stand. Only Caoilainn sensed the trepidation in his words. Alistair yelled, "Thank the Maker for the wellbeing of Ferelden! We have endured through hardship, time and time again. May this new year be blessed with peace and prosperity!"_

 _The crowd cheered again, louder than before, and a prideful beam spread across Caoilainn's lips so wide it hurt. At the same time, she felt an uneasy knot in her stomach tighten._

She shook her head to forget the bittersweet memory, staring into her reflection in her mirror as she braided her hair. Alistair's blooming confidence as King shared little with her memory of the bashful young man.

Caoilainn finished dressing and prepared to find Morrigan and Fergus— her escorts into the city. But as she reached the bottom of the staircase, the early arrival of the messenger stopped her. The young man bowed and reached into his satchel.

"Your majesty," he nodded again, "Blessed First Day to you." The messenger handed her a single letter and exited the way he came.

It was from Ansburg.

 _28 Haring, 9:42_

 _My Queen,_

 _I'm sure by the time this reaches you, it will be_ First _Day. I should be with you, my love. I'm sorry that I am not. I promise when I return we will never spend another new year apart._

 _In the meantime, I thought you might appreciate an update. We've reached the Warden Base of Ansburg. I'll have you know, the Marcher Wardens don't treat their Keep the way you did. The walls are bare, and it makes the emptiness seem worse. There are about a hundred Wardens remaining, only a few are from Weisshaupt and Orlais. We've met with the High Constable, and a few other leaders from Orlais and the Marches._

 _I am not fond of_ Ansburg's _Warden Commander. He's not very nice, to say the least. I'll tell you more when I can._

 _We have a plan of sorts. It looks bleak— I'm not going to lie. I don't want to give too many details in a letter, but I'm not sure if I like what we have in mind. I don't trust the Philippa woman as much as I'd like. But she helped us, I cannot deny that. Let's hope something works._

 _Did I mention Fiona disappeared? When we got here she just vanished. I wish I was more surprised, to be honest._

 _In spite of all that, there's something familiar here and oddly enough, I like it. Even though it's nearly empty and the Keep is undecorated, it's still very much a Warden Base. It makes me miss the bond. Do you ever miss the bond?_

 _I miss you the most._

 _Maker_ bless _this new year._

 _Love,_

 _A_


	30. The Hunt

_The silence in Hawke's small room within the Ansburg Keep was palpable. Fiona sat in a chair at a table, staring at the wooden surface, searching for a way to explain her disappearance to the other group members and Alistair in particular. The Ansburg Wardens would have too many questions, and any who made it from Weisshaupt might know her. Every outcome of them discovering her identity led to a revelation of the truth about Alistair, and she couldn't have that happen._ She had committed this to Maric.

 _When it seemed she had studied every grain on the tabletop, she resorted to standing and paced, wringing her hands as her thoughts continued. She had walked the room already, many times studying the minute details from corner to corner in helpless efforts to distract herself. It was a simple room, a bed on one wall, a table with a chair near the other, and an old fireplace occupied the opposite wall. A charred log rested in its ashes within the hearth._

 _Absent minded and frustrated with incessant waiting, she closed her eyes and pulled from the Fade, conjuring mana to send a quick spell to the firewood. Reluctant to burn, embers spread across the surface of the log, crackling as dust burned at contact. But the fire took, gracefully igniting when the power of the spell reached within the wood._

 _A gentle warmth joined the smell of burning wood and dust. She sighed and returned to the seat, strumming her fingers on the tabletop. At the same time, and to her relief, the door crept open. Hawke entered the room._

 _The man gave a dramatic huff and rolled his eyes. He removed his bracers. Fiona held her breath as she watched._

 _He shook his head and looked up to her as he tossed armor to the foot of his bed. "Tough crowd out there."_

"What is the status of the Wardens?" She blurted her question, unwilling to humor him.

"Aside from their near extinction and its threat to the future of Thedas?"

 _Fiona didn't answer; she frowned at Hawke until he gave a suitable explanation._

 _"Alright, alright," Hawke muttered in mock annoyance. He held up his hands. "The Orlesian Wardens are gone, and most of Weisshaupt didn't make it. Philippa is crafting another cure."_

 _"How would that solve anything?" Perplexed, Fiona rose from the chair and stepped toward Hawke. "I don't understand."_

 _"Supposedly, the Wardens might be able to rejoin once they are cured. The bond would have a fresh start, should the Wardens choose that path. And if they are so unlucky to be unable to rejoin— because yes, your name came up—" his brow lifted as she neared him, "then at least they haven't all turned to ghouls. At least that's the best sense I can make of it."_

 _"Is that all they said about me?" She looked up at him; eyes narrowed and nervous._

 _"That is it." He turned his head. "Well, of course, they mentioned your vanishing act. Is there anything else they should be talking about?"_

 _"No," she mumbled. The news had lifted a worried weight from her chest. Relieved, she sighed._

 _Hawke interrupted her reflection. "I get the bed, just so you know. You are welcome to join me, but fair warning, I am a cuddler."_

 _Fiona guffawed, glancing at the bed with skepticism. It was small, and she was not willing to get cozy with the Champion. She would make do with a makeshift bed from extra blankets on the floor._

 _With all that raced through her mind, she wouldn't sleep well anyway. She would rise before dawn, find Cohen and explain._

I need to rejoin the Wardens.

* * *

29 Haring 9:42

 _Nestled in the nook of a tree branch with her bow drawn, Hale tuned her senses into the forest. Vivid greens glimmered in the sunlight. Her sight was keen to catch the subtle movement of potential prey and her ears tuned into any shifts in sound. She steadied her breath, slow and even— silent. The quiet prevailed, absent of signs of game._

 _A branch cracked behind her, too close. Her body froze, anticipating confirmation of a threat or safety. Her gaze reached over her shoulder._

 _Before she could turn her head, she felt his breath before the vibrations of his voice._

 _"Huntress," Nate murmured in her ear._

 _Breath caught, Hale turned around, balancing on the narrow ledge of the tree limb with the support of the broad and mossy trunk. But he was gone. No sight and no evidence of Nate's presence remained where he had crouched._

 _Heart racing, Hale sighed and leaned against the tree, allowing it to support her. She growled— the din morphing into a pained yell. Leaves shook as birds flew away, screeching in reply to Hale's cry. Animals on the forest floor scurried from the sound._

 _She recognized the forest. Dense trees spread for miles, leaking in rays of sunlight at the leaves' discretion. The Emerald Graves. She had punched Nate near a tree like this, and later admitted her desire to the Warden Commander in the same forest._

 _The thought frustrated her, and as heat spread across her face, she realized she was awake._

Sheets tangled as Hale rolled in the shoddy Ansburg bed. Dense, the fabric didn't breath, trapping heat, and it seemed every fiber scratched against her skin. But when she kicked the sheets off, she found herself cold and shivering in the small room.

If she closed her eyes long enough, sleep took her— brief, but deep and immersive. Each time, lucid and unsettling images of Nathaniel brought her back to reality. With every drift out of consciousness, he found her. In every dream, in every circumstance.

Hale stared at the ceiling, irritated. _Fuck him._ She refused to analyze the dreams as anything other than a jealous response from the meeting the evening prior. Her stomach tightened as she recalled Nathaniel's prattling politely to the Orlesian woman, Bridgette.

The two had continued a private but professional conversation in the dining hall, sitting across from one another. From what Hale could hear, they spoke of the decline of the Wardens' health, and their respective experiences at the battle at the Arbor Wilds. Both tenured and high ranking Grey Wardens, their discussion went on for hours. Although they did not pass lurid glances and their speech was not suggestive, Hale was unwilling to bear witness to their chemistry. When she finally went to bed, their dialogue endured.

The memory drove Hale from her bed near dawn. She made a clumsy attempt to dress in the dark and found the nearest washroom. On her return, she grabbed her bow and quiver and donned them.

Rushing in her impatience to find suitable nature to hunt, she swung her door open and stepped blindly into the hall. Hale's body ran directly into another, and both yelped, startled and in pain from the collision.

"Bollocks!" Hale barked, using the door frame to prevent herself from falling.

The other person had fallen, catching herself with her hands pressed to the floor. "Pardon me," the timid voice answered. She kept her head down.

"Fiona?" Hale's eyes squinted, recognizing the sound and shape of the missing party member immediately. "The fuck are you doin' sneaking around the bloody halls this early?" She reached her hand out to help the other woman stand.

Fiona pressed her finger to her lips and made a shushing noise. She whispered her reply, "I could ask you the same question. I need to speak with Cohen."

"The High Constable bloke?" Hale's face scrunched. "But why? And where have you been?"

"It's personal and complicated. But I promise I will do my best to explain later. Can you help me?" Fiona pleaded, pitiful and desperate.

Taken aback, Hale stumbled to find words to agree or decline. She had nothing against the woman and felt little compulsion to judge the reasons for her lies or evasion. As long as Fiona held her weight in whatever challenges their group had yet to face, Hale was unconcerned with her present behavior.

Though she doubted the honesty of Fiona's promise of an explanation, Hale replied with a silent nod.

"Good," the mage mumbled, hurried and hopeful. The shy and nervous woman Hale had come to know was not present. Fiona continued, "Cohen should wake soon. Unless you know which room is his, I believe the dining hall would be the best place to find him. I cannot be seen."

"Right," Hale said through apprehension. She pointed to Fiona's hood. "Cover your head then, and I'll take you." The situation remained confusing, but Hale knew better than to question. She directed Fiona to the stairwell and down to the deserted dining hall.

Larger than the hall at Vigil's Keep, the emptiness of the Ansburg dining area was striking. Hale recalled the bustling activity in the dining room back home. Even at this time in the morning, the early risers would be claiming their favorite seats, preparing for their daily responsibilities. _Home._ She missed it, despite her short time as a welcomed member. The stark contrast of the vacant tables and chairs in Ansburg Keep only made her longing stronger.

Hale watched as Fiona found ingredients in the kitchen to make herself tea. She used magic to boil water, avoiding the need to dig through the clean pots and pans to find a kettle. Day old bread rested in a breadbox on the countertop and Fiona tore off a piece.

Surprised with Fiona's confidence, Hale's brows lifted. She asked with impatience, "That it then?" The brushing of the fletchings of her arrows against each other at her back returned Hale to the initial goal of rising early.

"Yes, Hale." Fiona gave a weak smile as she settled to a seat at the corner of an oak table in the corner of the dining hall. "Thank you. I will manage from here."

Hale nodded, ready to leave the woman behind. She turned on her feet but stopped before taking a step. Looking over her shoulder, Hale muttered, "Shouldn't lie to 'em all, you know. If you're hidin' something else, might as well just fuckin' say it before they find out some other way."

Fiona returned Hale's advice with a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you, Hale. If only it were that simple." Hale shrugged and took another step toward the exit, but Fiona's voice continued behind her. "You might even consider the same for whatever conflict you've been having with the with the Warden Commander." The sound of Fiona sipping her tea filled the silence that followed.

Rolling her eyes, Hale growled and stomped out of the hallway.

She found her way out of the Ansburg Keep. A door aside the kitchen led to the land opposite the river entrance. The moors continued beyond the stronghold; damp and frosted shrubbery and flowers spread across the uninhabited land beneath the grey pre-dawn sky. Her eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

With her eye on a nearby hill along an offshoot of the Minanter River, Hale took large steps through the overgrown foliage. The frosted leaves crunched under her feet, and a few times, she found the earth slippery. But she made it to a viable place to hunt and crouched in the grass. She grabbed an arrow, positioned herself, and waited for the sun to rise.

Stifling her yawns, Hale kept her eyes open for signs of life in her field of vision. The waiting paid off. Beyond the small stream, a few yards ahead, speckled brown and gold feathers glimmered in the hints of sunlight as it emerged from over the horizon. Four pheasants wandered, aimlessly pecking at the earth for seeds between clucking chatter.

Hale's eyes locked on, willing the oblivious birds to continue comfortably grazing. She aimed her arrow, careful to avoid rustling the bush. On the end of her exhale, she loosed an arrow and it whispered through the air, across the stream to the pheasant. Before the shot landed, she had nocked her bow and released another to the neighboring bird. It screeched, and the other creature flew off with a running start, landing again somewhere within the field of bushes.

Proud of herself, Hale took careful steps through the brush to the stream. Too wide to jump across, but too narrow to carry a powerful current, she deemed it safe to tread. But rather than get her boots wet in the chilly water, she opted for leaping to rocks. In just a few easy jumps, she would reach the other side.

A few paces north from her game, she found stones wide enough to land. Hopping one foot after another, she almost made it across until she slipped. Her boots couldn't catch tread on an algae-covered stone, and her foot slid into the stream. She cursed herself for not spotting the risk as the water splashed around her.

Groaning at the feeling of cold water filling her boots, she felt them sink into the wet dirt at the bottom of the stream. She stood knee deep in the creek, rolled her eyes, and tread the few remaining steps to the bank. Shivering, she picked up the pheasants and noticed the sound of stirring water had continued even with her absence from the stream. Confused, Hale turned around, eyes landing on the source of the noise.

The undead. Four of them. Drenched and waterlogged ghouls emerged from the shallow stream and trod toward her.

"Fuck," Hale exhaled, gulping. Without a chance to field dress them, she tied the pheasants to her belt and grabbed her bow. Backward strides took her closer to the Keep as she loosed arrow after arrow to the slow-moving once-Wardens. They groaned when each shot landed but continued their path.

As if the firing of her arrows irritated him, the leader of the ghouls hurried its pace to a run. It emitted incomprehensible noises, an unknown language of gabbles and groans. Hale turned to flee.

Despite the knowledge that the Warden sickness was not contagious, the potential of catching whatever plague this creature carried wasn't worth the risk. But she tripped, losing her footing on loose gravel.

Her rear broke her fall, and dirt and pebbles slid from under her as she rushed to stand. The ghoulish Warden neared her, babbling on in its undead tongue.

"Shite!" Hale scooted back, pushing her feet into the earth to propel her away. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

But it moved too fast. Hale exhaled, pulling her dagger from her hip and moving against her backward motion. With a swift lean forward, she drove her knife into the ghoul's stomach. Using the lodged blade as leverage, she pulled herself up. The blade dragged down, blood and unidentified insides of the ghoul falling on her. His chatter grew to wails as he stumbled, still standing.

"Damn it all," she sighed, glancing over the shoulder of the undead to spot the three others ghouls nearing. She pulled out the dagger in the first and lodged it into his chest this time. He hit the ground, gargling.

Hale yanked her blade back, scowling and bent to grab her bow. The decaying stench of the ghoul permeated the air, finally reaching her now that she could breathe. Large steps toward the Keep created distance between herself and the other ghouls. She debated finishing them off.

But they didn't follow, and she didn't wish to get any more of their remains on her. She hurried back to the Keep, jogging to keep herself warm. Scanning the water of the stream, assuring no ghouls rested beneath the surface, she rinsed off in closer proximity to the Warden base before returning inside.

Hale passed the dining hall. Twenty or more Wardens now occupied the area, migrating in and out of the kitchen at their leisure. She noticed neither Fiona nor High Constable Cohen were not present, but she didn't stop to look for them. She continued her rapid pace. Taking two steps at a time, she found her way upstairs to the Revas wing. Driven to change out of her wet clothes and find somewhere suitable to hang the birds still tied to her waist, she charged down the hallway. She didn't notice a door across the corridor had opened and closed.

"Hale?" Nate's voice came from the other side of the corridor.

Hale froze and took a breath. She heard the water dripping from her clothes as it formed a small puddle beneath her. Tucking her damp and matted hair behind her ear, she faced Nate.

"Yeah?" She pressed her lips together, clenching her teeth from the chill sinking into her bones and resisting the urge to pout.

Visibly confused by the circumstances, Nathaniel wrinkled his brow. He gestured to the pheasants. "Nice catch." But his concern returned. "Are you alright? What happened?"

"Ghouls sodding happened, Nate!" She blurted, unable to withhold her emotion. The thought to call him Commander didn't cross her mind until it was too late. He didn't seem to mind. Her shoulders eased; she stepped toward him, pouring out her explanation. "At least four of 'em were in the fuckin' stream and I fell in. I killed one and got away before the rest came after me."

"I have no doubt you could have taken them." A small smile spread across his lips and quickly vanished. At that moment, her heart fluttered for him.

She remembered the smell of his clean hair in Starkhaven— the ends damp and wavy and a perfect grip for her hands; his hands— familiar, passionate and hungry wandering her body; the way her body curled around his when they slept.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders. She shook her head in reply. Nate continued, "You're freezing." His tender hands rubbed her arms to create friction. He squeezed. "Wash up, find dry clothes, and come downstairs. Food will warm you up, and the others need to know what you found. Soon."

As he gave her the order, the door to his room opened from the inside. Simultaneously, Nathaniel's hands returned to his sides. Sweet-scented air emanated from within the room as another Warden joined them in the hallway.

Bridgette. The woman hummed a happy greeting to both Nate and Hale.

Hale's heart stopped. Her neck elongated as she stood taller, rigid, and her teeth tightened. The woman was composed, well-kempt, and showed no signs of any debauchery she engaged with Nathaniel. But the warmth of the room and the smell of sandalwood affirmed Hale's fears. There was no doubt.

Nathaniel cleared his throat. "When you're ready, we will see you downstairs, Warden." He addressed Hale with the title in the place of her name. "I'll take care of the pheasants for you so you can bathe and change."

With a numb nod, Hale exhaled and untied the birds. Muttering distracted thanks, she handed them off to him. She felt her pulse slow; her hands were cold and clammy, and a heavy chill overtook her.

If Nate said anything else, Hale didn't hear him. Instead, she turned around. The muted sound of the Orlesian Constable's sing-song pleasantries echoed from behind. But Hale continued, stepping into her room and gently closing the door.

As soon as she heard the door latch shut, she screamed. Her face contorted, angry and tight as hot tears slid down her icy cheeks. She took a gasping breath and howled again, pulling her bow off her back and throwing it across the room. It snapped as it hit the opposite wall. Hale's quiver followed, arrows splintering as they fell to the ground. The case cracked. Like a wounded animal, she sank to the ground against the door. Pain and rage boiled up to violent, rasping sobs from her throat.


	31. Warden Commander

The entire Keep was silent from where Fiona sat in the dining hall. No footsteps or creaking doors disrupted the quiet as they had in the other wing of the stronghold. Once Hale left, Fiona was left alone with her thoughts while she waited. Between Hawke and Hale, Fiona had gathered what she needed to know about the Warden's meeting the day prior. Her secret was intact.

The High Constable could be the only conscious Warden who knew of her child, and she planned to keep it that way. She had already practiced what she would say to Cohen, rehearsing in her mind a plea to return to the Wardens and the necessity of keeping the history of her pregnancy confidential. Cohen had been a reasonable man in the past, and Fiona prayed the quality remained.

As expected, he was the first to enter the hall that morning, apparently so accustomed to this habit that he didn't notice her sitting in the corner. She sat patiently, allowing him to gather his items for breakfast, tea and a piece of fruit he had scavenged from some storage place she must have missed within the kitchen.

Lost in thought, he returned to the dining area, gaze set to the ground.

Fiona kept her voice soft, certain she would startle him, regardless. "Good morning."

"Maker!" Cohen gasped in shock. With a few blinks, his eyes focused on the hooded Fiona at her lonely chair at the table. "Is that you, Fiona? Where have you been?"

She nodded. "I need to speak with you. Please, Cohen."

"Do you also need to scare the living daylights out of me?" He sighed, still recovering from being alarmed, and set his tea down at the table across from her. "If you intend to appear frightening, you're successful."

"It was not my intent." Her hands clasped on top of the table began to wring. "I couldn't afford to ask the others questions until I spoke with you."

Cohen made an annoyed snort and shook his head, unmoved by Fiona's situation. "Well, you have found me. It has been a long time."

"That it has." Fiona murmured, recalling her last memories of Cohen when she had returned from the Deep Roads with Duncan.

 _Fiona had traveled to Weisshaupt a month ago, called for a debriefing about her experience with the Architect. They determined she was an anomaly but not without forcing her to undergo every possible test the Wardens could develop. The taint no longer thrived in her blood, and she had no explanation. So far, they had been unable to reverse the cure._

 _The testing drained her, and each morning she found herself queasy, dreading what violating methods they would find to examine her that day. She was taken aback to receive a call to the High Constable's office that morning instead._

 _Dusty sun-stained stone walls encircled the desk in the High Constable's office. They absorbed the heat of the relentless daylight that crept in through narrow windows. Newly appointed to his role, Cohen managed to keep his desk tidy, save for a few scrolls. Weights held one open, revealing a report— about her._

 _He gestured Fiona to take a seat. The High Constable sat at his desk, his elbows propped on the desktop and his hands laced in front of his chin._

 _"How are you feeling, Fiona?" he asked with concern, a wrinkle of curiosity marked his brow._

 _Unsure how honest to reply in the circumstances, she shrugged. "I've been better, High Constable."_

 _"According to the healers, the attempts to initiate another Joining have been unsuccessful." Cohen frowned, scanning the report and only glancing up to Fiona on occasion. "We are fortunate the trials have not harmed you, as it seems you are with child."_

 _"Excuse me?" Fiona's stomach turned, as it had all morning. She put her hand to her mouth to quell the urge to vomit._

 _Releasing his hands, Cohen leaned back in his chair. "The news was just as astonising to me, considering the odds of two Wardens conceiving. Your quest to the Deep Roads was with your fellow Wardens."_

And Maric, _Fiona thought to herself, feeling the heat in her cheeks climb to her ears. She wanted to disappear. It was clear Cohen knew the blaring detail he chose to omit._

 _Whether an act of sympathy or discomfort with the silence, Cohen continued, "It is inappropriate for myself or anyone else to pressure more information, Fiona. You are free to say as much or as little as you like, and the choice of what to do with the child is yours."_

 _His words were calm, even, and this gift of mercy all too rational. After the conditions the leaders at Weisshaupt had subjected upon her, a kind Warden seemed unbelievable. She remained silent in her skepticism._

 _"With this news, the Order has decided to release you from your service to the Grey Wardens." He removed the weights from the scroll in front of him and rolled it._

 _"That's it then?" Fiona watched the paper as he tied it. "I'm free?"_

 _"Well," he frowned thoughtfully, "as a mage, you may be obligated to relocate to a Circle, but if and where and when that occurs is your choice. You are also welcome to stay in Weisshaupt as long as you like."_

 _She had left soon after, returning to Orlais and taking up with the Montsimmard Circle. The support of the correct decision was immediate and the circumstances were ideal. Her skills and critical thinking were warmly welcomed and applied. They accepted her, and upon the birth of the child, the Circle approved her leave to make arrangements._

 _With Duncan as her escort, she went to Denerim having already decided what to do about the child— her son. Confident the plan was possible with Maric's help, Fiona ignored the pain the decision rose within her. It was best for the baby. Duncan held Alistair throughout their trip._

Cohen's voice interrupted Fiona's reflection. "The Wardens on kitchen duties will arrive soon. We can continue this conversation in my office." He gathered his mug, steam still rising over the brim, and took it with him.

She nodded and followed to another suite on the same floor. The few Wardens they passed on their walked mumbled greetings and half salutes to Cohen, barely acknowledging Fiona. Eventually, they reached an office and Cohen.

As soon as the door closed behind Cohen, Fiona blurted, "Let me rejoin the Order."

He blinked with shock, frozen for a moment before stepping to a padded chair by a small end table, both coated in a light layer of dust. He didn't put a desk between them and instead gestured for Fiona to sit across from him.

He asked as he sat down, "What have you heard?

"The Order will be cleansed. All Wardens, sick or not will be freed from the taint. When it is done, they will rejoin." She blushed from the extent of her knowledge, knowing he would wonder where she acquired it.

He snorted, impressed with her intel, but he didn't press her for her sources. "You were unable to rejoin before. What makes you think it would work now?" After he sipped his tea, Cohen set the mug down on the round table and waited for her reply.  
"It would be worth trying, wouldn't it?" She leaned forward, determined to convince him. "I have not entered the Deep Roads since that quest, and any influence of the Architect's on my mind or body has long since passed." Her toes wiggled within her shoes. "I am also not with child."

"Good point." He looked to the ground in front of him, possibly recalling the news that led to her release from the Wardens. "We are uncertain if the Wardens will choose to stay."

"I will." A firm tone strengthened her voice. "Let me rejoin, Cohen. You need all the Wardens you can get."

"If this works," Cohen sighed with a defeated shirk to his shoulders, "— _if_ this works, Fiona, you are welcome to rejoin the Order of the Grey."

"Thank you." She said with a relieved exhale, assuming the end of their conversation.  
But Cohen's balanced tone posed an inquiry, "Does he know?"

The sense of relief that had washed over her vanished, replaced by weight in her chest. Fiona swallowed the discomfort. She knew who Cohen referred.

"He does not." She pressed her lips together then added, "and I promised his father to keep it that way."

Shaking his head, Cohen took a deep breath and didn't hide his grimace. "The same stands as our prior conversation, Fiona. None alive are aware of the details of your quest and cure, and I have no stake in revealing the information. Yet, considering present circumstances, I fear you will drive yourself to insanity before you maintain this secret."

"I've made it this far." She did not offer Cohen insurance against his concerns. With her terse response, she rose from the chair, ready to leave. She paused. "Thank you for your time and confidence, Cohen, in all respects."

He gave a tentative nod, wary and tired, but Fiona did not humor him. She left the room and chose to return to the dining hall to find the travel party.

* * *

 _The Night Before_

 _"After what happened in Ferelden during the Blight, many young Orlesians volunteered. We were afraid we might be next… ashamed we didn't offer support sooner."_

 _Nathaniel studied Bridgette's enthusiasm as she spoke. Her eyes sparkled, reflecting the votive light between them; she might have teared up but he couldn't tell. The melodic sound of her Orlesian cadence intrigued him and the pleasant shape of her mouth making unique inflections to even the most common words managed to distract him. She didn't seem to notice the way his eyes wandered from hers. He felt guilty, considering the professional and polite nature of their conversation; the intense stare of Hale a few tables over didn't help either._

 _Nathaniel smiled and replied as diplomatically as he could, "It is heartwarming to hear the past division between our countries does not divide the Wardens."_

 _"Now, I did not say that." Bridgette grinned back and lifted a finger. "Animosity is not always lost between Ferelden and Orlais, or Tevinter and Orlais," she glanced to the ceiling during her pause, searching for words, "or the Free Marches and— well, I could go on." She made a playful roll of her eyes. "But in the face of a Blight, Wardens' obligations to the Order overrule their commitments to their country. That is our charge."_

 _"If we could have acted sooner to help the Inquisition, we may have saved more Wardens from Erimond." He was serious, remembering her upset from the meeting earlier that day. "I extend condolences and regret, Warden Constable Bridgette."_

 _"Bridg," she corrected. "Just Bridg is fine, and do not apologize. You were right during the meeting. We would have only risked more Wardens if you had come." She looked at her hands as she spoke. "The First Warden was right to be circumspect."_

 _Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the rough sound of Hale huffing. She rose from her seat and trudged from the dining area._ It's better this way. _Curiosity and concern were not strong enough to compel him to chase her, and the awkward silence following Bridgette's assurance needed to be filled._

 _Nathaniel changed the subject.  
"I joined the Wardens after the last Blight as well, though it was hardly voluntary," he snickered wryly and nervously adjusted the collar of his tunic with one hand._

 _"You mean you were conscripted?" She questioned as if this detail was out-of-character for Nathaniel. The woman was smart, knowledgeable thanks to her time in the Order and her extensive dealings with record keeping. He appreciated the engagement of an adult conversation, free from animosity. Guessing she was at most a few years his junior, the faint lines around her eyes suggested he was right._

 _He gave a single nod. "The current Warden base in Ferelden belonged to my family's name until my father squandered it with deceit to the kingdom. I was in Starkhaven during the Blight and returned to my home when I heard of my father's death. It was then I was conscripted."_

 _He let go of his clothing, wishing they still had food to occupy their hands and mouths between conversation. They had been talking for over an hour, and though he knew the conversation was destined to arrive on the topic of his father, he wasn't pleased it had finally occurred._

 _"Rendon Howe?" She asked, her brow lifted and then furrowed. Nathaniel assumed Bridgette had already learned his surname from Cohen and put the pieces together, but now she seemed confused. "I thought he only had two children and his son died in the Blight."_

 _Nathaniel made a consternated hum, wishing he was more surprised to discover non-Fereldans were unaware he was the son of his father. "My younger brother passed in the Blight, and my father preferred to pretend I did not exist, hence sending me to the Free Marches as a lad." Nathaniel couldn't retain his dry laugh. "To think I returned to Ferelden to avenge his death."_

 _After tucking a red curl behind the gentle curve of her earlobe, Bridgette's hand touched his on the table. Years spent training in sword and shield with chevaliers left her palm callused, yet the gesture was soft, warm. "It sounds as though your father missed the chance to know an intelligent and capable man."_

Hardly. _Nathaniel kept his self-deprecation to himself and looked away. Having only shared fragments of his experience as Warden Commander with Bridgette, Nathaniel hadn't admitted his immense burden of failure. If his father had any reaction to the man he was now, it would be undoubted ridicule._

 _She changed the subject from the awkward silence this time, moving her hand away to her neck. The candlelight flickered, nearly going out. Nathaniel thought he noticed a blush rise in Bridgette's cheeks. "Forgive my boldness, but I must know. Does the Warden Commander of Ferelden have a lady awaiting him at the Keep?"_

 _Another hum escaped him, poised and casual. The question from Bridgette alleviated a portion of his guilt for the intrigue with the elegant way her tongue and lips and tone cooperated as she spoke. His smirked and slowly shook his head. "I do not, Warden Constable. Does anyone wait for you in Orlais?"_

 _"None." With an impish purse of her lips, her chest lifted in confidence._

 _Their conversation returned to work, drifting in and out of the covertly flirty dialogue, both emboldened by permission to share an open attraction and mutual respect. Years in the Order of the Grey, accumulated seniority and experience, gave them much to talk about. It helped Bridgette seemed to enjoy Nathaniel's company, and she was charming. Hale hadn't crossed his mind since she left._

 _As the evening waned into the night, the direction of their discussion led them to Nathaniel's room. Nathaniel's heart raced, compelled by the woman leading him down the hall. Her hand brushed his as they hurried down the dark hallway. They murmured to one another comments on the Keep, playful teasing until they found their way to his room._

 _When they reached his door, Bridgette just a step ahead of him, she turned around. Smiling, her back facing the entrance and pulled the collar of his tunic to bring him closer. Nathaniel leaned forward with her direction, his hand reached to the door frame on her side and his other landed on the handle.  
She whispered, "Do you find someone to join your bed in every town you visit?" The words tickled Nate's ear, and the light floral scent of her perfume left him unexpecting of her kiss to his cheek._

 _Nathaniel replied with a chuckle, sure to keep his voice low so as not to wake the others sharing the hallway. His thumb brushed her cheek as his lips nearly grazed her ear. "The occurrence has been rare since I became Warden Commander. And yourself, milady?"_

 _Again, he left out his off-and-on relationship with Hale for the last year and her consistent place in his bed—by his side. It was easier to act as if their fling hadn't happened, just a simple mistake he had made, attempting commitment, especially with someone so young and immature._

 _"Yes, on occasion," Bridgette replied, turning her head so her lips brushed his._

 _Touch provoked another hum from Nathaniel, almost a growl taunted by the sing-song voice coming from the plump lips of this woman. His hand released the door frame and wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, as the other opened the door. Their mouths met, locked as Nathaniel guided Bridgette into his room and shut the door behind him._

 _A moan escaped her when they reached his bed. With a gentle hand to his chest, she pushed him away as she sat down. Lips red from kissing, Bridgette wrinkled her nose. "This place makes me miss Orlais. Llewellyn leaves this Keep in such disarray. All the rooms smell like mold and dust."_

 _"I've noticed." He watched her with curiosity as she pulled off her satchel and opened it._

 _"It is why I come prepared." She revealed a few sticks of incense and a small stone and striker. "Ansburg— for all its backwater water— has an excellent trade route."_

 _As if she already knew her way around, Bridgette kicked off her boots and crawled across the bed to the modest bedside table. She lit a small candle with a quick spark from the striker. The old and charred wick ignited, and Bridgette passed the incense sticks through the flame. She blew them out and set them in small notches in the wooden table. Her quick and effortless action left two streams of scented smoke rising to the ceiling as she reclined against the headboard of the bed._

 _"I'm impressed," Nathaniel said, beholden with Bridgette's brightness. The addition of candlelight let gold glisten in her hair. It made the woman glow. And the smell was soothing, sweet sandalwood the permeated his bedroom._

 _Her legs stretched across the bed toward him, and she pointed with her toe. "Then I believe it is your turn to impress me, no?" Her head cocked to one side._

 _With a chuckle, Nathaniel closed the gap between himself and the bed. He grabbed her feet and dragged her to the edge. A light giggle escaped Bridgette as if she wasn't the least bit surprised about Nathaniel's action._

 _And it all felt natural. The two cooperated as Nathaniel leaned forward to kiss her, working together to remove her clothes. Socks and leather breeches fell to the ground to reveal the bare skin of her defined legs. Nathaniel's hands ran along the outside of her thigh, noticing the stray grooves of scars from long-healed bites, nicks, and gashes resulting from years of swordsmanship.  
After a moment of studying her scars, Nathaniel glanced up. Bridgette stared back with an amused arched brow. He smirked a reply and pulled his shirt off, leveling the playing field by revealing a chest of similar healed scars and scratches._

 _Bridgette sat up. Her confident hands explored his chest and belly, touching grooves of muscles and the indents of old wounds until she made her way to his pants. Unlacing the strings with strong fingers, she let him pull them off when she finished. He removed his boots in the process._

 _He was hard. Their night of flirting and the unrushed intimacy had teased him far too long. Freed of his breeches, his length rose in his smallclothes. And as if she couldn't resist, her hand pressed against him, holding his member from outside of his underwear. He sighed, wanting more and unwilling to rush it. They were equals, and this heated exploration required patience._

 _He ran his fingers through her hair, gripping the roots of a handful of hair. She purred, enticed, and deftly pulled his smallclothes over his length, letting them fall around his ankles. And he watched her, attracted and aroused. He had suspected he had impressed her and awaited the natural flow of their connection._

 _Bridgette stroked him, experienced and aware motions applied a balance of pressure. It coaxed him to groan, and he gripped her hair tighter. As her hand moved, persuading his twitches and heavy breathing, he bent to kiss her. And her lips met his, parting to allow his tongue._

 _They moaned into each others' mouths, heat emanating from their bodies. Both of Nathaniel's hands moved to find the buttons on Bridgette's cloth gambison. It helped he knew the facets of Grey Warden attire, and that she had refrained from full armor. He could have navigated the garment with his eyes closed, and he nearly did.  
She released him and his kiss, taking the chance to pull off her remaining garments. Nathaniel kicked his pants away from his feet at the same time. When he was done, he realized the woman on his bed was completely naked._

 _The contours of the woman's muscles on her arms and chest proved her time training was well spent, and only seemed to complement the attractive shape of her breasts. Nathaniel inhaled, nearly intimidated by her evident strength compared to his lean build. But the woman waited for him, not the least bit hindered._

 _So he knelt to the ground. Agile hands separated the woman's legs before Nathaniel dragged his lips along her inner thigh. He reached her heat. And it was hot— wet and swollen, glistening with want. Their eyes met again, continuing this dance in silence, free from insults and derision, free from the blurred lines of a passionate power struggle._

 _He took his mouth to her, his tongue gliding against her outer folds, tasting her satisfaction. She whispered something in Orlesian and reclined on the bed. Nate continued, wrapping his arms under her legs and reaching up to her chest. His mouth explored, tender and careful, but quick and precise. He searched her entrance until he influenced a loud moan._

 _When his tongue found her bundled nerves, she convulsed. Her legs tightened for the briefest moment, and her fingers weaved through his hair. She whimpered. Light flicks of Nathaniel's tongue alternated with gentle rubbing of the tender spot. Her back arched and her legs pressed harder against him as her body seized._

 _Long seconds lasted, and he kept contact until she gasped, coming down, returning from the climax to the bed. He would have continued, prompting another quick orgasm from Bridgette if she hadn't pulled his face up to hers for a long kiss. And in the position, he felt himself against her heat—supple, lubricated, and throbbing against him._

 _She nodded and whispered. "Yes, Nathaniel Howe." Her hand slid between them and guided him inside._

 _Preferring the position, the control, and momentum, Nathaniel stood up as Bridgette remained prostrate, her feet were planted on the corner of the bed. He slowly thrust, each inch of his member filling her until he reached her fleshy wall. Then he pushed a little harder._

 _She sighed and gripped the sheets of his bed. Retracting, Nathaniel thrust again. Slow, steady, feeling her body easing him in with each inch he entered. Her sighs became moans. Attentive to the tightness of her body relaxing as he thrust, Nathaniel increased his speed and force._

 _"Bridg," he murmured, panting as his hips firmly rolled into her, filling her up. "Is this good for you?" His voice was concerned, and void of flirting. He didn't ask to boost his ego._

 _She smiled and squeezed her legs against his sides. "It is quite good."_

 _And it was good. Wet friction stimulated his groans, and the impact satisfied something deeper, something frustrated and carnal Nathaniel could not explain. But Bridgette didn't mind; instead, she took him in, over and over until he had to lean forward. He pressed a hand to the bed beside her so his other could massage her muscular breast._

 _It seemed the touch freed her. Bridgette's hips pressed, requiring Nathaniel to maneuver to stay inside. She sang climax— a beautiful and pleasured sound, void of anger and hostility. Her body stiffened, eyes squeezed shut, and she convulsed for waves, the pitch of her moan changing with each crest._

 _And it called to him. Bridgette's pulsing tightness around him and the ache throbbing in his cock made him want something more. In the past, if he had gone weeks without release, he would come effortlessly, time now seemed time to contribute to his stamina. He slowed, and Bridgette seemed to read his mind. She nudged him to remove himself, and she rolled to her hands and knees._

 _"I enjoy it this way." She explained, grinning over her shoulder to him and crawling forward to make room for him on the bed._

 _He knelt behind her and found his way inside once more. His pace accelerated faster that time and her moans matched. A hand squeezing her hip gave him control of force and impact, and the curve in her back seemed to allow him further entry. She met another climax and he groaned, all but pounding into her as his other palm gripped her rear. A frustrated growl fell from his lips and his hips bucked into her. He throbbed, releasing. Spent._

 _When he pulled out, he cleaned himself with his underclothes and handed them to her. "Thank you, Bridgette. That was not what I expected when I arrived in Ansburg's Keep."_

 _"Nor I when you arrived, Nathaniel. Though I am not the slightest bit disappointed." She tossed his clothing to the floor. Without another word, she found his tunic and pulled it on._

 _Nathaniel snorted to himself, gathering a washed pair of smallclothes from his belongings. One leg at a time, he put them on, realizing the aches and pains in his body from the extent of his travels to get there. He knew he would sleep well that night._

 _Bridgette would too, apparently. The woman joined him under the covers and fell asleep against him. Her incense still burned._

 _When he woke the next morning, Bridgette was still there. At first, he smiled, content with the appealing shape of her warm and welcoming body stretched alongside him. But then a knot tugged at his stomach. He remembered the confusing and tender night with Hale just a few days before they reached Ansburg. Hiding his activities with Bridgette would be impossible, and the desire to do so was disrespectful to her._

 _He rose from his bed and dressed in clean clothes, glancing at Bridgette's muscular body comfortably prone._ Fuck. What have I done?

Hair brushed and braided, he left the bedroom, only to find a damp and disgruntled hair walking on the other side of the hallway. Concerned, he called to her. "Hale?"

And she explained, an angry description of an attack by ghouls. When her speech slowed, she shivered. The news of the ghouls should have worried him more, but under the present circumstances, he was not alarmed. He found himself more worried about Hale. Familiar with the challenges of a bruised ego, he wanted to give her his gambeson or better, take her into his room and help her change. But he couldn't. Instead, he put his hands on her shoulders, attempting to keep her warm.

He checked her safety, gave encouragement and directions, orders as Warden Commander. Before their conversation could continue, Bridgette joined them. The knot in Nathaniel's stomach tightened, and he noticed Hale's face pale. _Shit._

She nodded blankly before wandering to her room, and Nathaniel desired to go after her. But he didn't. Bridgette took his arm and led them down for breakfast. His heart sank when he heard Hale's cry as they turned the corner of the hallway.


End file.
